


Brilliant Beyond Brilliant Idea

by OccasionallyCreative



Series: Universes [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:13:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 39,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twins Poppy and Isla were separated as babies when their parents, Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, divorced. After the two meet again at a summer camp, they begin plotting to reunite their estranged parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 10/05/2015: Please note that this fic has recently undergone a MAJOR, and well overdue, re-write. The plot is basically the same but what I've done is that I've polished up the writing in some areas, changed the names of the twins to Poppy and Isla, and switched Tom for an OC named Mark (as the Tom shown in s3 was too cute for me to paint as a huge obstacle to the twins' schemes).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a prompt for an AU of The Parent Trap from desperatelyseekingsherlock, which I took and just ran with.

Of course it wasn’t meant to last. It had been too much, too young really. Molly sighed and eased the ring from her wedding finger.

“We’re not even divorced yet,” he said from behind her. “That’s a bit pre-emptive, don’t you think?”

She turned and against her better judgement, her heart leaped a little. Even the anger she felt at him didn’t detract the fact that he was deathly handsome with that smirk on his face. God, but she could fall in love with him all over again. She _could._

“Twelve months, I’ve kept this ring on. I think it’s time you got it back,” she said, dropping the ring into his open palm. Her fingertips brushed lightly, briefly, against his skin. His fingers scooped up the ring, his eyes skimming over it. He pocketed it and smiled, but it failed to take.

“Very well. I suppose we had best get on with it.”

* * *

Sherlock sighed and trudged up the stairs to 221b. His bad mood only increased when he saw that Mycroft was sat on the sofa and carefully twirling his umbrella between his fingers as he always did.

“Brother,” he grumbled, picking up his violin and sitting in his armchair. There was a moment of silence between the two brothers, where all that could be heard were Sherlock’s calloused hands gently picking at the strings of his violin.

“It was quick and painless, I hope.”

“You don’t hope, Mycroft. You know.”

“Indeed I do,” he said quietly before directing his gaze towards his brother. “You plan on staying here, I believe. Are you quite sure that’s wise, considering?”

“Considering what?”

Mycroft let out a sigh and a small shrug. “Memories. She did live here after all.”

“Much to your chagrin,” Sherlock said. He couldn’t help but smile at the memory a little. On hearing that his young brother had decided to marry, Mycroft’s eyebrows had arched upwards and his only remark had been to remind Sherlock how upsetting it would be to their dear Mummy. At the time, Sherlock couldn’t have cared one iota about what Mummy thought, or what Mycroft thought either. Of course they’d have disapproved. Whirlwind romance, they’d have termed it. Much too fast.

Now he was sat in 221b Baker Street a divorced man with a three month old lying asleep in his bedroom.

An idle heavy sigh had Sherlock aiming a glare at his brother. Before any snide remark or exchange could be made however, there came the soft sound of a baby cry. Sherlock immediately unfolded himself from the chair and moved towards his bedroom. He heard Mycroft follow suit.

He entered into the bedroom and moved towards the cot by the window. It was an old cot, donated to him— _them_ —by Mrs Hudson (who’d apparently got it from a friend; the details were fuzzy, he hadn’t really listened when she’d told him). Inside the cot, swathed in blankets to keep the cold away was his tiny three month old daughter.

Slowly, her eyes opened. On seeing her father, her mouth broke out into a grin and she reached out as far as she could as she quietly babbled out her need for him to hold her. Sherlock was only too happy to oblige. Carefully, he picked her up and supported her in his arms. He couldn’t help but smile as she grinned at him.

“I assume you chose not to name her after Mummy,” Mycroft said, leaning against the doorway slightly.

“You assume correct. Her name’s Poppy, if you really must know,” Sherlock said and he finally turned to face his brother. Poppy saw her uncle, whose frown deepened on seeing the child’s face.

“Yes. That’s your uncle. Mycroft Holmes,” he whispered softly. Poppy’s grin widened and just as she had done to Sherlock, she reached out to Mycroft. Sherlock stepped forward, but Mycroft’s frown deepened in disapproval. Poppy’s face crumpled and she whined, reaching out further.

Originally, he took her from Sherlock to prevent her from crying. Sherlock merely stepped back and watched. It only took a few minutes. His brother’s expression barely changed but the light in his eyes gave everything away. Eventually, he looked to Sherlock. The frown was back in place.

“I suppose she’ll be fine,” he said coolly before he handed Poppy back to her father and swept from the flat. Sherlock looked to his daughter, deftly playing with her tiny fingers and stroking at her chubby cheeks.

“See that Poppy? You just melted the iceman.”

* * *

On the other side of London, at the check-in desk at Heathrow Airport, things were a bit more hectic. With a bulging suitcase at her feet, Molly sighed heavily and scooped her hair into a tight ponytail, smiling for the benefit of her daughter, who was currently lying against her chest, comfortable in the cocoon of the baby carrier as she gurgled a little, the sound something that both warmed and hurt Molly’s heart in equal measure. There should’ve been a second baby there, gurgling along with her sister but it was not to be.

They shouldn’t have married. They shouldn’t have even considered the idea of children. Yet, in their love-addled minds, they had. It wasn’t that she regretted having kids; what she truly regretted was that the baby beside her would never know the mad, eccentric and utterly marvellous man who was her father. Of course, if truth were to be told, it was really the best thing to do. It was better for her daughter not to know her father than to suffer through the effects of witnessing an unhappy marriage. Wasn’t it?

She was at the check-in desk before she knew it. The check-in attendant said nothing but just waved her through with a small, sympathetic smile before moving on to the next person in the queue.

Molly walked through the airport, more than a little bit stunned.

This had all happened. It had really happened. She had divorced Sherlock Holmes, and she was now heading towards the flight that would take her from her dear United Kingdom and to Phoenix, Arizona.

It was the right thing to do. She repeated that to herself a number of times, the words a slight breath on her tongue, but when she sat in that seat on the plane, and watched as the plane roared down the runaway and up into the air, there were no amounts of softly spoken words that could stop her crying.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Eleven Years Later._ **

Sherlock was on his second concerto of the day when footsteps bounded up the steps to 221b and the door burst open and the small whirlwind that was his daughter ran inside. Sherlock chuckled and put away his violin.

“I take you had a good day at school then?”

“It was okay – but look what I got from Uncle Mycroft!” she added, before she unceremoniously stuck a plane ticket into his hands. Sherlock scanned it, and frowned. The plane ticket was to Maine, an open return and apparently free of charge, according to the note pinned to it.

On seeing her father’s expression, Poppy’s smile dropped a little. “He promised I could go…”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Sherlock muttered. Ever since first meeting her at three months old, Mycroft had been wrapped around Poppy’s little finger, and ready to do anything for her at the drop of a hat.

It had been a week since Poppy had learnt of the summer camp known as Camp Walden, and it had been for that entire week that she had badgered her father about going. Sherlock had, obviously, said no every time. Of course some parents might like the idea of having a whole summer away from their children, but Sherlock Holmes was not like some parents. Even though he would never admit it outright, the idea of having his daughter halfway across the world for a little over two months wasn’t one that appealed to him.

“Dad, _please_ can I go? Uncle Mycroft says I should – he said it would be good for my education!”

Sherlock gave her a look in response, to which Poppy quietened, and gave a shrug.

“Fine, he didn’t say that _exactly._ But it really would, you know, help me. Kind of. Please can I go, pretty please?” she asked, almost pleading, with her eyes wide and her bottom lip stuck out in a large pout. For a moment, he looked at her, in a somewhat large amount of disbelief. She was so like her mother in both personality and appearance, it was uncanny. Even her eyes were the same—wide, deep brown, impossible to say no to. Really, the only thing she had inherited from him was the deep ebony black of his hair. Everything else was purely from her mother. Right down to the wide eyes and the pout.

He let out a short chuckle and kissed her on the forehead.

“Alright. You can go.”

Poppy let out an immediate cheer of delight and grabbing the ticket from her father’s hand, she jogged upstairs towards her bedroom. Sherlock sighed and returned to his violin. As noted by John many a time over the years, it wasn’t just her uncle that Poppy had wrapped around her little finger. Sherlock had often regarded the comment with a quick dismissal or a blithe retort, but he would be damned first if he’d ever agree outright.

* * *

Camp Walden was the sort of place read about in books and seen on quaint television programmes. Groups were made up of who was placed in which cabin, and almost everything was built from logs or rustic wood. Lines of buses pulled into the grounds, filled with cheering and waving girls, whilst various camp leaders and staff waved back just as eagerly.

It wasn’t something that greatly impressed Mycroft. He did briefly wonder why his niece had insisted on coming, but when he saw her face light up as the car pulled up in the grounds of the camp, he decided that the appeal, or indeed the charm, of Camp Walden was obviously something lost on adults like him. It would be best not to question it. Getting out, he saw that the children from the buses were now unloading, and a grey-haired woman was stood on a small plinth, megaphone in hand.

“Welcome to Camp Walden. I’m Marva Kulp, your camp director. Now, girls, remember to find your duffels as quickly as possible, we have a big first day ahead of us—”

Poppy clapped her hands happily, looking to her uncle. “Isn’t this great?”

“It’s not for me to judge I believe,” Mycroft said, sniffing slightly. There was a pause as Poppy considered his words, and she shrugged.

“Whatever you say Uncle Mycroft!”

“Yes. Well, you’re just fortunate enough that I had a meeting with the President this week, that’s all. Now, let’s review everything.”

“Now?” Poppy said, sighing a little. Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he removed a notebook from the inside pocket of his coat. She took that for an insistent yes.

“Vitamins?”

“Check.”

“Minerals?”

“Check.”

“List of daily fruits and vegetables?”

“Check, check.”

Another eyebrow was raised, but he continued all the same.

“Sunblock, insect repellent, stationary, stamps…”

“Look, Uncle Mycroft, I’m sure it’s all there. I packed it all! And you double checked. And Dad triple checked.”

“Hm. Very well. I shall be off. The President dislikes being kept waiting.”

Poppy said nothing to this, but that was nothing new. Her disinterest in politics was something Mycroft had long ago decided to ignore. She only spoke when he turned to leave.

“Uncle Mycroft – could you do the handshake?" Poppy stepped forward. "You know, before you leave?”

“No. It would be inappropriate.”

Poppy pouted a little. “Please?”

For a long while, Mycroft stared at his niece, unwilling to give in. Like her father, she simply waited and as ever when his niece asked for something, it took Mycroft barely a moment to give in. With a slight sigh and a roll of the eyes, he stuck out his hand. Grinning widely, Poppy took it. Within a few seconds, they were back in the familiar routine, arms and hands moving dextrously before they both pivoted and bumped hips. Exchanging places, they once more shook hands.

“Have fun, won’t you?” Mycroft said.

“I’ll definitely try,” Poppy replied, her eyes twinkling.

* * *

On the other side of the camp, a girl with dark curls and searing brown eyes was attempting a mission of deathly consequences that would either end in a self-admittance of defeat or injury or both. In short, she was trying to retrieve her duffel bag from the pile that it had been buried under.

“Hey,” a voice said behind her. “You okay?”

“I’m – _fine!_ ” Isla said, panting a little.

“You don’t look it.”

Hearing this, she turned on the person beside her. It was a boy, about average height for his age. His hair was a vivid shade of bright red and light freckles were dotted on his face.

“What are you doing at a girls’ camp?” she asked bluntly.

The boy shrugged.

“My dad. He thought it was a mixed camp. Need any help?” he added, looking to the pile of bags. Reluctantly, she nodded. The boy grinned and leaned forward, taking a tight hold of her bag. With an annoying amount of ease, he pulled it free and handed it to her.

“Thanks. Though I still could’ve done it on my own.”

“Sure. You British or something?” the boy asked suddenly. “For a second there, you sounded, err—”

Isla rolled her eyes. “No, I’m not. I’m American. But my accent sometimes slips into British – it’s the effect of having a British mom.”

“Cool. Name’s Nero, by the way,” he said, sticking out his hand. Isla took it with a degree of caution, but shook it all the same.

“Isla Hooper!” On hearing her name, Isla turned her head, raising a hand. Marva Jr smiled up at her, glancing at her clipboard.

“Arapaho.”

Nero grinned brightly. “That’s where I am. At least you’ll know one person there!”

The smile Isla gave him was somewhat tight at the corners. “Great.”


	3. Chapter 3

Not a full week had passed before Poppy had decided that life at summer camp was a lot easier than some people (namely her uncle) had made it out to be. The girls inside the cabin she had been assigned were friendly enough, and the activities weren’t too strenuous. In fact, it was all quite fun.

The only entirely strange thing came near the end of the first week, when she and her friends went to the mess hall to get lunch. As always, the buffet table practically groaned with food and the queue was long, but she duly moved along with it, chatting happily with her friends as they waited, inching forward towards the head of the line. Once there, Poppy went to pick up a bread roll, but was interrupted by the arrival of the elder Marva.

“Excuse me girls, I’ve just got to have a scoop of these gorgeous strawberries.” She turned to the girl on her left. “Would you care for some?”

“Sorry, I can’t,” the girl replied. Poppy continued to pick out her lunch. “I’m allergic.”

“That’s too bad.” Marva turned to Poppy, tapping her on the shoulder. “How about you dear? Strawberries?”

“No, I can’t. Sorry, but I – I’m allergic, you see.”

Marva’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, allergic. You just told me that.”

“I – I don’t think I did.”

“How did you get over there?”

“Sorry?”

Marva immediately waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. First week of camp – you’ll have to excuse the old girl. At least I’m not putting salt in the sugar shakers! I mean, sugar in the salt shakers, you know…”

Seeing that the camp leader was preoccupied, she wisely decided to move away.

* * *

The sound of swords clashing made Poppy turn. On the green, a fencing session was taking place, enthusiastically overseen by Marva Jr. One of the players was dressed all in white. The other was dressed in a mixture of green and white. The latter was winning easily while the former was struggling in vain to at least stay on their feet. In fact, it only took a quick series of parries and thrusts before the one in white wobbled precariously and seemingly gave up on their endeavour to remain standing and instead fell straight onto the ground. Poppy moved closer as the defeated opponent removed their helmet, revealing themselves to a boy with bright ginger hair.

“That’s me out!” he said, laughing a little. Poppy recognised him as Nero, the only boy at the camp. Contrary to expectations, he had taken the mistake entirely in his stride.

“Alright excellent kids!” Marva Jr said as she stepped forward and took the hand of the winner. “The winner and still undefeated champ from Phoenix, Arizona, Miss Isla Hooper! Any other challengers?”

There was silence in the group, and Marva Jr laughed heartily. “C’mon, ladies – let’s not be damsels in distress here!”

Hannah, who was most certainly the loudest of Poppy’s group of friends and most inclined to cause trouble, nudged at her.

“C’mon, I bet you can beat her.”

“No,” Poppy said with a smile and a shake of the head. “I’m fine watching.”

Hannah nodded, and quickly turned towards Marva Jr. “She’ll do it!” she cried, pushing Poppy forward.

“What, Hannah, no—”

“Okay, great,” Marva Jr said with a grin. “What’s your name, hon?”

“Uh, Poppy,” she said, directing a brief glare towards Hannah. “Poppy Holmes.”

“Cool. Now, go get ready! We’ve got a game!”

Poppy had half a mind to get ready as slowly as she could, but her friends apparently had better ideas, for before she could even attempt to reason with them, she found herself prepped for the game, with her mask on and a foil in her hand.

“Fencers ready?” Marva Jr asked. Both of the girls nodded, settling into a beginning stance. Marva Jr’s grin widened.

“En garde and – _fence!_ ”

Immediately, Isla surged forward in a series of attacks, but they were swiftly blocked by a variety of defence moves from Poppy.

A stubborn girl from the very start, Poppy had never much liked the idea of losing. Her father had said once that that was something she’d inherited from her mother. (Well, it hadn’t been said, more implied before being dismissed entirely.)

Apparently, her opponent, this Isla person, possessed that same stubborn streak. She again launched in a rapid series of attacks and parries, forcing Poppy to respond with the same. The game rapidly escalated as a result, and the two girls found themselves off the green and heading quickly towards the camp lake. The rest of the onlookers eagerly ran after them. Marva Jr, having apparently momentarily forgotten her duties as co-camp leader, was among them. The two fencers had now edged dangerously close towards the water’s edge, their attentions locked onto their fight. Cheers and chants echoed as the onlookers, growing in number as the fight continued, egged the two girls on.

Those same cheers and chants stopped dead when Poppy eventually lunged forward with her foil, poking it right into the middle of Isla’s chest with a loud, triumphant cry of “Touché!” followed only by a surprised yell and the splash of water as Isla promptly fell back into the lake.

Giving a gasp, Poppy let her foil drop to the ground, ripped off her mask and dived into the water to pull her opponent out from the water. Once out of the lake and back on the dusty ground of the camp, the two of them slowly got to their feet.

“Thanks,” Isla said from besides her, spluttering slightly.

Marva Jr stepped forward, giving a nervous chuckle. “Okay, that was quite a show! But I think we’ve got ourselves a new camp champ from London, England, Miss Poppy Holmes! All right girls, shake hands now.”

With a sigh, Poppy turned. Any remark or consolations she had planned dissolved immediately and her breath caught in an audible gasp. Now she knew why the crowd had grown so silent so quickly.

She was looking at her reflection. Or, at least she would be, if she were looking into a mirror. But no, she was instead looking at her opponent, Miss Isla Hooper. They were identical. Eyes, hair, nose, and even their ears. _Everything_ was the same. Isla scoffed. Whether it was out of pure derision or out of an attempt to break the tension, Poppy didn’t really know.

“Honestly. What is wrong with you guys?”

“Can’t you see it?” Poppy asked, frowning. “The resemblance?”

Isla’s eyes scanned her for a moment or two before she flicked her head back, her face now set into a sneer. “No. For one thing, I can fence, and you can’t. Not without pushing someone into a lake anyway. You’re just being stupid.”

With that, she swept away. Poppy stayed where she was, mouth gently dropping open. Her face darkened into a scowl and she whipped around.

“At least I’m not as stupid as you!”

It was those words, trivial as they might have been, that brought about what would be known throughout the camp as The Great Prank War.

* * *

Week by week, the pranks got larger and messier. The first one was harmless enough (according to the two Marvas at least). It was just a simple ‘steal her clothes when she’s swimming’ technique, the retaliation being the use of fake spiders hidden inside bed blankets. From that point on, the pranks happened on an almost regular basis. It was nearing the end of the second week however that the ante was upped by a few severe notches. As discovered by Isla and Nero after they had come back from a long session of basketball, they saw that every single one of Isla’s possessions had been removed from Cabin Arapaho and put on the roof of the mess hall. Yet when Isla went straight to Marva to report it, it was received with a light laugh, a dismissive wave and the claim that it was just “harmless fun between girls”.

“Harmless fun?!” Isla spat, sitting on the floor of Cabin Arapaho and seething. Nero sat opposite her on his own bed, quietly waiting for a moment to speak. Oblivious, Isla continued to rant.

“Oh yes, your belongings are all on the roof and we can’t get them down until Wednesday at the least, but it’s just harmless fun – just something girls do at your age! Oh ha bloody ha!”

Tentatively, Nero held up a hand.

“ _What?!_ ” she snapped, aiming her glare at him.

“I was just thinking – no, wait, it’s a stupid idea—”

Isla got to her feet, slowly approaching him. “No, you had an idea. An idea that was clearly a good one, because you immediately dismissed it. What was it?”

“It’s nothing—”

“It was obviously something, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it, now would you?”

Nero nodded slowly. Isla might have been startlingly pretty, but she could be rather—well, extremely—scary when she wanted to be.

“I was just thinking… that maybe we could prank her back? With you know, like, the ultimate prank?”

Isla frowned. “The ‘ultimate’ prank? What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’d be messy…”

“Don’t care. _Tell me_.”

* * *

The next morning, Camp Walden woke not to the strained sounds of “The Star-Spangled Banner” on the bugle, but to the sounds of shocked screaming. Sounds which came from Cabin Navajo. Outside that same cabin stood a giggling Nero and Isla as they watched their various masterpieces come into play, all of them triggered by the intricate webbing that now filled the cabin. Girls stood in puddles of treacle, fake spiders fell down from the ceiling, dangling in front of their faces—it was an utterly perfect symphony of chaos. Isla’s giggles evolved into full-bellied laughter as she watched her snobbish, British clone deftly jump and dodge the stream of water balloons that headed her way from a box planted straight above her. When they seemingly ceased, Poppy grinned. It was a grin that was immediately wiped when the last water balloon, the largest of the lot, rolled out of the box and dropped straight onto her head.

Now water-soaked, she growled in frustration as the chaos around her took place. “Isla Hooper is the lowest, most awful creature that ever walked the planet!”

Isla flicked a grin at Nero. Pranks, especially messy pranks, were definitely _fun._

“Morning girls!” Marva called cheerfully as she and Marva Jr strolled past them.

“Morning Marva,” Isla and Nero said in unison.

Then it struck them. _Marvas_.

It got worse.

“Surprise inspection!” Marva called, her voice echoing through the megaphone. “Navajos!”

“The milk!” Nero squeaked, but Isla clapped a hand over his mouth, glaring at him.

“Don’t. Say. Anything. I’ll sort it.”

Quickly, she left a now terrified Nero and ran to the door of the cabin, throwing herself across it. The two Marvas stopped in their tracks.

“Isla dear, what _are_ you doing?” the elder Marva asked.

“Well, uh, one of the girls – she got sick last night and it’s – it isn’t pretty. Go and inspect our cabin first. We can manage here!”

Marva shook her head. “Well if someone’s sick, I have to go in.”

Isla closed her eyes for a moment and tried to gather her thoughts. Lying had never been her strong suit, however much she wanted it to be. Growing impatient, Marva pushed at the door, but Isla held firm.

“I promise you Marva, it’s not good. Really not good.”

“Move aside, dear. I won’t tell you again.”

“Actually, we’re all fine in here,” Poppy said, leaning through the open window. “No-one’s sick or anything.”

Isla sighed. Of course her downfall would come at the hands of one Poppy Holmes. She tried once again.

“My mum’s a doctor!” Isla cried desperately. “I know about this stuff – she’d agree with me. You seriously can’t go in. Just leave for the moment, and we’ll clean everything up. I promise.”

Marva sighed. “Inspections take time, dear.”

“Great! Take all the time you need – just take the time somewhere else!”

There was yet another heavy sigh from Marva and she grasped Isla’s shoulders and pushed her to the side, wrenching open the door.

There was far more chocolate milk than Isla had imagined. The bucket must have grown in size, by some horrible miracle. The liquid poured over the heads of both Marvas, and that only served to set off a chain reaction as the two Marvas slipped and slid straight towards the end of the cabin, where they both smacked hard into the large chest of drawers.

“What the hell did you do?!” Poppy cried, staring at Isla in a mixture of shock and awe.

“I didn’t do anything! They were the ones that opened the door!”

“Enough! I have had enough of this!” Marva yelled, stumbling to her feet. Through the mess of chocolate milk, she glared at the two girls, pointing an accusing finger at the two of them. “You, and you – _pack your bags!_ ”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note to give major, major thanks to everyone who has commented on, left kudos and/or bookmarked this fic thus far.

They ended up in the isolation cabin, a place hidden far away in the camp forest that seemed to be deliberately cold and wet and damp. Aside from that, it wasn’t too bad. They could still walk to the main camp without losing breath, and anyway, it was somewhat peaceful, if one ignored the drafts that came through from underneath the door and the steep hill that had to be walked up in order to get to it.

That was Poppy’s view on the situation anyway. Isla, on the other hand, seemed to be a lot more annoyed about the ordeal, and for the first couple of days, she refused to speak to or even acknowledge her fellow cabin member; and when she did deign to acknowledge Poppy, she only did so in order to blame her for what had happened. At first, Poppy did consider arguing with her and pointing out that if she hadn’t set up such a horrible set of pranks, they would still be in the main camp, but it was obvious to see that Isla Hooper wasn’t really one for listening.

It was the weather that got them actually talking to one another. The rain had begun early in the morning and had not stopped from that point on, thus regulating the two occupants of the isolation cabin inside for the whole day. Where Isla had chosen to sulk about the situation and lie back on her bed, Poppy had made herself busy hanging up some pictures on her side of the cabin, humming quietly to herself.

“Shut up,” Isla snapped, at which Poppy frowned and looked over at her bunkmate, who was lying back on her bed, reading intently.

“No,” she said petulantly, and she began to whistle cheerfully as she resumed putting up her pictures. From behind her, she heard Isla sigh heavily but say nothing. She grinned. Poppy, 1. Isla, 0.

Her triumph was rudely swept away when a gust of wind blew through the open window, scattering her pictures everywhere. Quickly Poppy ran to the window, and vainly attempted to pull it shut, but despite her best efforts, it remained where it was.

“It’s probably stuck,” Isla said, still reading.

Poppy directed a look at her. “Then maybe you could think about helping me?”

There was another heavy sigh as Isla discarded her book, stood up and moved over to the window, pulling it shut with an irritatingly large amount of ease and she aimed a look at Poppy.

“There. Happy now?”

Poppy frowned and murmured a small “thank you” before she turned away and slid off the bed, gazing at the pile of scattered photos that lay on the floor. She sighed as she began sifting through them. At least she had the afternoon to sort through and rearrange them.

She only looked up when she saw another pair of hands in her peripheral vision. Isla glanced at her, as if surprised by her surprise.

“What?”

Poppy considered a smart remark, but the large amount of photographs negated her urge to speak. So she instead merely gave a smile and the two continued with the task in silence.

“Any of the pictures ruined?” Isla asked eventually. Poppy shrugged.

“Only this one,” she said, holding up a now ripped picture of the elements table and fighting back a blush, waiting for the usual sneering comment. She had never been one to go for what was popular, preferring to instead pour over her father’s endless scientific journals.

Strangely enough, it didn’t come. Isla merely shrugged, apparently impressed by what she saw.

“And just when I was beginning to think you were stupid.”

Poppy frowned. “Beginning to?”

“Could an idiot put my belongings on top of the mess hall without detection?”

She couldn’t help but giggle a little at this. It had been perfectly simple really, setting up the prank; all she’d really had to do was wait for a quiet moment within the camp and everything else had been smooth sailing.

“Yeah, well,” she said with a shrug. “You must be pretty clever too, seeing as you managed to soak the two Marvas in chocolate milk.”

Isla raised an eyebrow. “To be fair, that was designed for you.”

At this, Poppy smiled. Before she could say anything else however, the bell for lunch rang somewhere in the distance. Isla’s stomach instantly rumbled.

“Guess that’s a sign,” she said quickly, standing up. When she got to the door, she turned and glanced towards Poppy. “Coming?”

Poppy quickly scrambled to her feet. She wasn’t sure what she had done to gain this newfound camaraderie from her bunkmate, but she definitely wasn’t going to question it.

* * *

They arrived at the mess hall to find not the usual mess of chattering and laughter but the sounds of hushed, gossiping whispers.

“What do you suppose going’s on?” Isla said, but Poppy shrugged.

“It’s Marva,” Nero said from behind them, at which they both turned. Poppy shrugged, her eyes widening in a silent question for more information. Nero moved forward. “It’s the old one – there’s been a break-in at her office. It’s not been said officially what was taken, but we all know it was her jewellery.”

Poppy shook her head. “That’s terrible.”

“No it’s not,” Isla said eagerly, eyes shining. “It’s brilliant – first exciting thing to happen here in _days!_ ”

Nero frowned, but said nothing, more than used to Isla’s strange behaviour by now. Poppy however, after having endured a prank war followed a week of silence from her bunkmate, had yet to become as tolerant as the ginger-haired boy.

“We should investigate,” Isla said eagerly. “You know, find out who did it.”

Poppy gave a sigh. “I _know_ what investigate means. I just don’t think we should do it.”

“Correction: you’re scared to do it.”

Poppy sighed, but she was unable to think of a suitable retort. The fact that Isla was 100% right also grated. She turned to Nero, who stepped away.

“No,” he said, shaking his head quickly. “No way. You’re not getting me involved. You’re not!”

He kept saying that right up until the point that he, flanked by Isla and Poppy, found himself standing directly opposite a door with a sign which read _Marva Kulp: Camp Director._

“Keep watch,” Isla ordered, just before both she and Poppy dived inside the office.

* * *

The interior of the office was pretty standard for a camp director, but Poppy still scanned it, absorbing everything she could see and filing it away in her mind. Isla, however, preferred to take a more hands-on approach. Without hesitation, she shut the door behind them and practically threw herself to the floor, crawling on her hands and knees as she peered into dusty, dark corners for any piece of evidence she could find. When a few minutes had passed, she looked up to see that Poppy still hadn’t moved.

“Leaving me to do all the footwork then,” she muttered, but Poppy shook her head.

“No, I’m observing. It’s like my dad says – you always have to find out what you’re searching for before you go looking.”

Isla snorted derisively. “Rubbish. You’re just being lazy.”

Poppy shrugged.

“Maybe,” she said as she stepped towards the open window. Bending down, she touched at the sill and broke into a grin as she picked up three long blonde hairs. Lifting them up to the light, she focused her gaze on her bunkmate.

“See?” she said, unable to hide the smugness in her voice. Isla got to her feet, huffing slightly.

“Alright – we’ll do it your way.”

The minutes ticked by as the two girls observed, searched and looked. By the end of it, the total sum of their evidence was the three blonde hairs and a burned ID badge.

“So, let’s put all this together,” Poppy said, sitting down in Marva’s chair and carefully spreading the evidence out on the desk. “Neither of the Marvas is blonde, so we can count them out.”

Standing over her, Isla nodded.

“And this ID badge has the initials R.O. on it, and it looks recently burned, so that rules out any campers. Are there any blonde employees with the initials R.O?”

Poppy shrugged and stood up. “Don’t know. Might as well have a look.”

“Isn’t that kind of a lot illegal?” Isla asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My father always says it isn’t illegal if it helps the case.”

“Your dad says a lot of things,” Isla muttered, but Poppy simply gave a shrug as she moved over to the set of filing cabinets that stood by the left wall and scanned the labels on the drawers.

“He solves crimes – he’s supposed to talk a lot. Ah!” she cried, grabbing at one of the lower drawers. “Letter R.”

Isla jumped up. “Find anything?”

“I’ve got to get the thing open first,” was the curt reply.

A firm clearing of the throat stopped them from continuing any further. Slowly, Poppy and Isla both turned to find the two Marvas glaring at them, arms crossed. Nero peeked out from behind them, giving a small wave.

“Hi guys,” he said sheepishly.

* * *

The elder Marva sat at her desk, hands clasped together whilst Marva Jr stood behind the two girls, arms crossed over her chest. The both of them wore disapproving frowns.

“You girls care to explain breaking into my office?”

“We didn’t break in,” Isla said defensively. “We sneaked in. We had to conduct a search.”

“A search?”

Poppy nodded. “Yep. We wanted to help you catch the person who stole your jewellery.”

“How did you know it was Ma’s jewellery that got stolen?” Marva Jr asked, incredulous.

“It’s obvious. There’s nothing else of value to steal in here, is there?”

The elder Marva shrugged in agreement, but instantly shook her head. “That doesn’t matter. You girls broke into my office!”

For a few moments, there was silence in the cabin, only to be broken by a heavy sigh from Isla.

“Look, do you want to know who stole your jewellery or not?”

Both of the two women blinked, but it was Marva Jr who answered.

“We might as well Ma. I mean, you know – considering this one’s,” she nodded quickly to Poppy, “parentage.”

The elder Marva sighed. “Okay. Girls, who do you think did it?”

Isla gave a quick, encouraging nudge to Poppy. “Go on – tell her.”

“Why don’t you? This was your idea.”

“You were the one who broke into the filing cabinet,” Isla pointed out. “You do it!”

Before Poppy could speak however, Nero cleared his throat and stepped forward. Both Poppy and Isla eyed him suspiciously. He however, continued to move forward.

“I… err… found something too,” he muttered.

“Really? What’d you find?” Marva Jr asked. Nero only stepped towards the window and pointed outside. Both the two Marvas and Isla and Poppy moved to the window and looked outside, where they found, embedded in the rain-soaked mud, a series of footprints.

“Well,” Isla said brightly. “I guess we follow those!”

Grabbing Poppy’s hand, she ran outside.

* * *

The footprints only lasted until the outskirts of the forest, but Isla and Poppy persevered in their search.

It took them a little under fifteen minutes, and it was Poppy who was the one to find what they were looking for: a medium-sized jewellery box that, despite numerous efforts from someone, had remained unopened. Tucking it under her arm, she, followed on by Isla, ran quickly back towards the elder Marva’s office and burst inside, dumping the box on the desk with a flourish and a grin. However, the elder Marva did not return their grins. Instead, a deep frown was etched onto her face as she read through a folder. It was a few moments before she registered that Isla and Poppy were stood in front of her.

“Oh! Thank you girls,” Marva said, unlocking the box and rummaging briefly through the contents. “Everything seems to be here… You don’t need to worry yourselves though about anything else – we already know who the culprit is.”

“Rosie Johnson,” Isla said quickly.

The elder Marva’s eyebrows quirked up in surprise. “What? How did you know?”

“Saw it on the folder,” she explained with a shrug. With that, she was gone from the cabin. Poppy made to follow, but was stopped when Marva Jr called her name.

“You know you two are still confined to the isolation cabin, right? This doesn’t get you out of anything.”

“We know,” Poppy said cheerfully before she dived out of the cabin, jogging after her bunkmate. Marva Jr glanced to her mother. From enemies to friends so quickly. It was enough to confuse anyone.

* * *

By the time the two girls had got back to their cabin, the rain had resumed and they were both drenched. Shivering, Poppy wrapped her scarf tighter around her arms and curled up on her bed, unable to help glaring enviously at Isla, who apparently was her own personal radiator, and as such, only needed another jumper before she felt completely warm.

“You can come over here if you want,” Isla offered after the fourth envious glare from her shivering bunkmate. When Poppy only frowned as a way of reply, she leaned forward and gestured to the radiator behind her. Giving a sigh of relief, Poppy was off her bed and scuttling towards Isla’s bed within a matter of seconds, climbing on and snuggling against the warmth of the radiator.

This newfound companionable silence was broken however when a loud rumbling sounded. Immediately, Poppy clamped down on her stomach, a blush growing over her cheeks.

“Sorry – I’m really hungry.”

Isla only laughed.

“I forgot we only went down to the camp for lunch. Here,” she said as she clambered down towards the end of her bed and leaned over the edge. There was the sound of a bag being unzipped and some rummaging before she reappeared, holding a packet of sweets. Moving back to the radiator, she offered one to Poppy. “Want one?”

“Thanks,” Poppy said with a smile. “I love these, but I never get to eat them – I only get them when my uncle brings them back from one of his trips.”

“Wow. You’ve got a generous uncle.”

“Don’t you have one?”

Isla shook her head. “Nope. My mum was an only child.”

“Oh. To be honest, I think my dad would rather be one of those – an only child I mean. He and my uncle don’t really get on.”

“You talk about your dad a lot.”

Poppy blushed a shade deeper. “Sorry. It’s just – he’s all I’ve got.”

“Ah, okay. I get it now. I’m the same with my mum. What’s your dad like?” she asked quickly on seeing Poppy’s expression downturn a little at the mention of mothers. Isla gave her another nudge when she stayed silent.

“C’mon – you can tell me. Do you find it easy to talk to him, or is he that ‘closed-off’ kind of dad? You know the ones who like their work more than their kid?”

“It’s hard to say really,” Poppy answered finally, taking another sweet from the packet and popping it into her mouth. “This might sound weird, but he’s kind of a mixture. Like, he’s a great dad – I can talk to him about anything – but when he’s on a case, he gets more… logical? Yeah, logical is the only way I can describe. He calls it going into his ‘mind palace’ though.”

“Mind palace?” Isla gave a snort. “That’s rubbish.”

“You wouldn’t say so if you saw him!” Poppy said. “What’s your dad like?”

At this, Isla glanced down, now much more interested in the pattern of her duvet. “I don’t have a dad. I mean, I know I had one once, but he left my mum when I was little.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay – my mum always said it was a mutual thing. What?” she said, noticing Poppy’s growing frown.

“It’s nothing, I’m just – being silly, I guess. But just to check: when’s your birthday?”

“August 17th.”

Poppy paled slightly. “That’s my birthday too! Oh my god.”

She didn’t need to explain. Isla had already caught up, and she jerked upwards. “How old were you when your parents split up?”

“Three months. And – I’m guessing you were the same?”

Isla nodded. For a moment, the two stared at each other. Was it actually possible?Without warning, Isla sprung from the bed and knelt by her bag, scrabbling inside for something. She gave her answer before Poppy even had the chance to ask why.

“My mum always had this photo of my dad – she caught me looking at it almost every day, and eventually just gave in and gave it to me. I’ve had it ever since – so why can’t I find it now?!”

Poppy ignored her ranting and climbed off the bed, running towards her own bed where she pulled her bag from underneath it and rummaged inside. After only a few moments she found it—the one picture of her mother that she’d kept ever since she was 6 years of age. It was worn, the edges curled from so many instances of her taking it from her bedside drawer and staring at it until every little detail had been implanted in her memory. The creased lines at her mother’s eyes as she was doubled in laughter; the teasing brightness in her eyes; the perfectly manicured hand pressed against the chest of her father; and that ugly, ugly rip down the middle.

“Found it!” Isla said, her voice more hesitant than before. With wobbling legs, she got to her feet. Both of the girls faced one another.

“On the count of three.”

“On the count of three,” Poppy repeated, with a nod.

“One…”

The photo clasped to Isla’s chest was just as worn, if not more, than hers.

“Two…”

The rips down the middle of their photographs were the same too. Poppy swallowed the urge to laugh nervously. This was it. This was really happening.

Isla took a breath. “ _Three._ ”

Almost immediately, they presented their photos to one another, joining them together into a cohesive whole. This time, Poppy couldn’t hold back the soft, breathy laugh that bubbled up in her throat. Her father’s face shone out at her, his hand clasped over the hand that pressed against his chest. His eyes sparked with a life that she hadn’t ever seen before—the kind of life someone only gets when they were standing next to the one they loved.

“That’s my dad,” she said, voice choked.

Isla laughed in disbelief. “And that’s my mum.”

They looked at one another, neither one of them quite able to believe the knowledge they now had. For eleven years, they had believed themselves to be an only child. And now, here they both were, in southern Maine, standing opposite not just a long-lost sister, but a long-lost _twin_.

“What’s her name?”

Isla tilted her head slightly, confused. “You don’t know Mum’s name?”

“Dad – he, well, never mentioned it. Only ever referred to her as ‘your mother’.”

“Oh. Well, her name’s Molly. Molly Hooper.”

“And you’re my sister,” Poppy said quietly, smiling widely. Isla grinned and pulled her into a tight hug. They didn’t let go for a long, long time.

Eleven years. They had a lot to catch up on.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has commented on, left kudos and bookmarked this fic, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. I really enjoyed writing it (as it contains some of my favourite moments in the movie, and I really loved adapting them to the BBC Sherlock universe).

For the rest of the day, Isla and Poppy chattered with one another, exchanging information and stories from their lives. After eleven years, they had much to talk about. It was dark before they got to the most important topic of all: their parents. With their beds pressed together by the window and their torn photographs pinned side by side on the wall, they talked, the now almost empty packet of sweets lying between them.

“Mum works as a pathologist – technically, a specialist registrar,” Isla said. “I don’t know much about it really, but from what Mum tells me, she examines dead bodies – you know, to find out how they died.”

Poppy nodded, and shifted. “That’s kind of – funny, really.”

Isla narrowed her eyes. “Funny? How?”

“Well, you see, Dad works with Scotland Yard.”

“Dad’s a policeman?” Isla’s eyes widened. “Wow!”

Poppy snorted. “No, he’s better than that! He’s a consulting detective. He helps the police when they get stuck on a case. And they get stuck on _loads_ of cases.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a consulting detective.”

“You wouldn’t have. He invented the job,” Poppy said proudly, but there was soon silence as she considered her next question. So far, she and her sister had talked about many things, but they hadn’t yet broached the somewhat taboo subject of that most dreadful of things: stepparents.

“Isla—”

“Yeah?”

“Has Mum, you know – did she ever move on?”

Isla shook her head, grinning. “Nope. Mum always said she gave up on dating years ago. What about Dad?”

“Well, there was one woman that Dad met on a case… but I think that was before he and Mum even got together, from what John’s said. Aside from that, nothing.”

“Hm. Weird. Neither Mum or Dad talked about their divorce, but neither of them tried to move on either.”

Poppy smiled. She didn’t have to be told what implications that had. Although both she and her sister were yet to fully experience the complications of love and its consequences, it was still pretty obvious. After all, Poppy had met plenty of divorced people in her life, and none of them (however much they hated their exes) had ever had to separate their children and live on different sides of the Atlantic as a result.

Quite without warning, Isla sat up, eyes sparking with the thoughts of a plan. “I have a brilliant, and I mean _brilliant_ , idea! Beyond brilliant, actually.” She turned to look at Poppy, who merely raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Oh, come on. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Okay, fine,” Poppy said, propping herself up on her elbows. “What’s the idea?”

“You want to know what Mom is like, don’t you. And I am desperate to meet our Dad.”

“You’re seriously not suggesting – oh, Isla, _no_ …”

“Look,” Isla said quickly, jumping to her knees. “It’s perfectly simple. When camp finishes, I can go back to London as you, and you can go back to Arizona as me! I see no problem with it.”

“And I see a thousand,” Poppy shot back. “Namely that it’s completely and utterly illegal!”

“That is irrelevant. We’re twins – they’ll never know! All we need to do is train one another, learn one another’s mannerisms and bang, it’s done! Easy as anything.”

“Two things. One, we’re completely different from one another. And two: our Dad is one of the cleverest men in the world – you won’t even be off the plane before he figures it out and sends you packing!”

“No-one can be _that_ clever,” Isla said, scoffing slightly. Poppy sighed, aiming a look at her sister.

“Trust me, if anyone could, he could.”

“Okay. Don’t believe me? Watch this.” Twisting her hair around her shoulder, Isla smiled and placed her hands in her lap, eyes wide. The resemblance she held to Poppy was even more eerie than it had been before.

“Hello,” she said, with her voice softer and less blunt but more clipped than her own accent. “My name’s Poppy. My dad’s a consulting detective – he says that you always have to find out what you’re searching for before you go looking. Now, c’mon – you go!”

Poppy shook her head. “No, I can’t. I’ll be hopeless.”

“Oh, come _on_! It’s worth a try, at least.”

For a long moment, Poppy watched as Isla stared at her, smiling encouragingly. _This is insane_ , she thought as she sat up a little straighter and pulled back her hair into a ponytail, squaring herself up a little.

“Honestly,” she said in what was hopefully a good impression of her sister’s voice. “What’s wrong with you lot? I see no resemblance. You’re all just being stupid!”

With that, she finished her impression and relaxed, twisting her hair around her neck to her front. She sneaked a glance at Isla, who had remained utterly silent throughout. The look on her face was one of surprise.

“Wow,” she said eventually. “That was like looking in a mirror! Come on Poppy – we _have_ to do this! Please?”

Isla was right of course. Poppy _was_ dying to meet her mother. She had been ever since she’d discovered that photograph in her father’s drawer. And now… somehow, in some way, she’d been provided with that chance. She was a fool if she didn’t take it. Finally, she nodded.

“Sure. What harm could it do?”

“Yes!” Isla cried, scooping Poppy into a quick hug before sitting back on her bed. “And you know what’s really great about this?”

“What?”

“When we switch, sooner or later, they’ll have to switch us back. And to do that—”

“They’ll have to meet! Oh, of course!” Poppy said, grinning widely. “And after all these years too!”

Isla lay back on her bed, snuggling down in the duvet, preening slightly at the brilliance of her plan. “And that’s precisely _why_ it’s brilliant.”

* * *

For the next few weeks, the rest of the camp—both staff and children—watched with some puzzlement as Isla and Poppy, formerly such determined enemies, were now entirely inseparable and chattered happily to one another, squashed up as they were on the camp isolation table in the mess hall. Poppy and Isla, unaware of the confusion brought about by their new friendship, soon enough settled into a rota. On one day, Isla would tell Poppy about her family and life in Arizona, and on another day, Poppy would tell Isla all about life in London.

Poppy, her breakfast untouched, presented her sister with a series of photographs, one by one. She beamed as she spoke.

“That’s Mrs Hudson,” she said, presenting a photo of one family Christmas, where Sherlock was frowning, side-eyeing an old woman as she pressed a pair of Christmas antlers onto his head. Isla smiled. The woman in the photo seemed nice enough, with her wide smile and greying bouffant hairstyle.

“She’s the landlady,” Poppy explained. “But she’s always cleaning up after Dad, so she’s more like a housekeeper. I help her out sometimes when her hip’s acting up, and she always gives me a scone and a cup of tea afterwards.”

She presented another photograph, but this time, it wasn’t a jovial photograph of some party or other. It was in fact a portrait. The subject of the portrait in question was a slender man dressed in an expensive-looking suit and in his hand, he clutched a black umbrella. He was every inch the cold and cool English Gentleman. All that was missing was the bowler hat and the pipe.

“That’s Mycroft. He’s the uncle I told you about. He comes off as cold and kind of mean, but I always get him to do what I tell him. He’s a softie really.”

“Oh, okay,” Isla said, drawing the photograph closer to her and peering at it. “I mean, he buys and imports sweets for you, so he can’t be _all_ bad.”

Poppy giggled and presented another photo. This time, it was of a shorter man, with greying blonde hair. Although he was stood up straight and wasn’t making any attempt to smile in the picture, there was a kind of brightness in his eyes that betrayed an element of cheekiness about him. She imagined he would be the sort of person to tell you off for doing something wrong, whilst encouraging you to do it at the same time.

“That’s John – John Watson. I mentioned him last night. He used to be in the army. He’s our Dad’s old flatmate, but he moved out when Mum and Dad got married. He and Dad really get on – they’re best mates, actually. He also helps out on the cases Dad gets from the police.”

“Right. So he’s a consulting detective as well then?”

“No, not really. Not like Dad is. He is clever though, and he’s solved a few cases on his own. Overall though, he’s just really nice. I’ve known him since I was little.”

“He seems like a good guy.”

“Yeah. And you can get away with _anything_ when he’s around – which is useful,” Poppy said. She packed away the photographs and picked at her once-forgotten breakfast, leaning forward a little. “So, tell me about your family.”

Isla smiled as she took a couple of photographs out of the back pocket of her jeans and put them on the table.

“I’ve only got two main people in my life, really. There’s Mum,” she said, tapping at the photograph of their mother. “And there’s Mary.”

She pointed to the other photograph, which was of a birthday party. In the middle of the photograph was a small 5 year old Isla, and behind her was a blonde lady, short in stature, with slate blue eyes. She was hugging Isla from behind, and her grin was wide as she laughed. Poppy immediately knew she was someone to be liked. That impression was confirmed by Isla’s answer.

“Her full name’s Mary Morstan. She’s American, a nurse. Mum met her when she started at her job in Phoenix. She’s really nice and sweet. Pragmatic too – just like Mum.”

Poppy glanced at the photo of Mary. “She does seem sweet. I can’t wait to meet her!”

Isla nodded, but gave a sudden cry as she realised something. She reached back into her pocket and brought out another, smaller, photo. This time, it was of a dog; a small, fluffy thing with wide, inquisitive eyes.

“That’s Charlie,” Isla said quickly, smiling as she glanced at the picture. “He’s my dog. Well, mine and Mum’s. We’ve only had him for a few years, but he’s really sweet. A bit stupid at times, and he can’t play fetch to save his life – but he’s adorable anyway.”

Poppy smiled a little as she stared at the pictures once. Molly, Mary and Charlie.

Yeah. That sounded okay. More than okay, as a matter of fact.

* * *

What with all of the training and teaching, camp went by far too quickly and in what seemed like no time at all, they were stood at the entrance to the camp and bidding each other goodbye.

Checking the documents for one final time, Isla handed her passport and ticket over to Poppy. It felt strange to Isla, to see her sister in her clothes. It really was like looking into a mirror. Sighing a little, she squared her shoulders.

“Right,” she said. “This is it. We can’t mess this up.”

“No, we can’t. And remember: you’re finding out how Mum and Dad broke up.”

“And you’re finding out how they met,” Isla said, to which Poppy nodded.

They were interrupted by a light tapping on each other’s shoulders. Together, they turned to find Nero stood before them.

“Just thought I’d say goodbye before the buses left,” he muttered, avoiding their eyes. Isla stifled a giggle, glancing to her sister before she looked back at Nero.

“Thanks Nero, for everything.”

“You’ve been great,” Poppy added, smiling. Nero grinned, fighting back a blush.

“You’re worth getting out of games for,” he said quietly and the blush he had been fighting finally flooded his cheeks. That blush only increased when, as one, Poppy and Isla bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

“Th-thanks,” he mumbled before he scuttled away and into one of the buses. Laughing slightly, Isla turned back to Poppy.

“Remember to stay in touch, won’t you?” Poppy asked.

“Of course I will.”

Poppy smiled and pulled Isla into a sudden, but quickly reciprocated, hug. “Good luck,” she mumbled. Isla’s grip around her shoulders tightened. Poppy sighed happily and stepped back, pressing a passport and ticket into Isla’s palm.

“That’s all in order – I’ve checked and double checked it. Mycroft will no doubt send a car to pick you up, but if he’s not too busy, he’ll probably pick you up himself. Of course Dad—”

“Hey, Poppy,” Isla said, cutting her off. Smiling, she rested a hand against her twin’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Go. You’ll miss your bus otherwise.”

“I know,” Poppy said, smiling. “Give Dad a hug for me, will you?”

“Of course I will. Now, c’mon – the bus is waiting!” Isla urged and Poppy laughed. Pulling her sister into one last hug, she turned and ran off, practically diving into the about-to-depart bus. Isla stayed where she was, watching as the bus slowly pulled away.

The fact that in just a few hours, she would be in London and would be face-to-face with the man she had only ever seen in an old photograph washed over her. She folded her arms tightly over her stomach, which had suddenly started to feel more like a bottomless pit. Even after all the teaching Poppy had given her, she still hadn’t fully realised the scope of what she was doing.

A small part of her wanted to run away and admit the whole plan to someone, _anyone_. Another, larger, part of her immediately rejected the idea. Yes, it was ridiculous, and it was silly and highly implausible that it would work in the long run, but that didn’t matter. If she only got a week with her father out of this—less than that even—at least it would be something.

It would definitely be better than staring at a torn up photograph for all eternity.

* * *

It was a decidedly new experience, travelling as Poppy. Unlike her previous travelling experiences, she was waved through without just a nod and a polite smile, officials in suits helped her with her luggage and she was left in relative peace. Clearly, Poppy had greatly underestimated just how generous Uncle Mycroft was, and just how far that generosity extended.

When she did finally disembark from the flight, she stepped out of the arrivals gate to be met by a short, balding driver who held a large piece of white card on which the name _Poppy Holmes_ was embossed. She greeted the driver with a smile, but he merely took her bags and escorted her out of the airport and towards a sleek black car. Isla tried not to gape as she slid inside and felt the softness of the leather. After all, she was Poppy Holmes. No doubt she would be used to this sort of thing. The driver still said nothing as he packed her bags into the boot of the car and got into the front. He didn’t ask where he was supposed to go either. Isla once again assumed that this was Mycroft’s doing. No doubt he—with his seemingly endless influence—had already given the driver instructions of where to go.

The drive was longer than she thought it would be, but she happily wiled away the time by gazing out of the tinted window at the scenery that flicked past her. Thanks to Poppy’s teaching, she (hopefully) wasn’t exactly the wide-eyed Yank she feared she might have been, but it was still with a jolt however that, when the car turned down one street that Isla found a building she did recognise. Though not a landmark or anything close to resembling Baker Street, it was still a place that had her sitting bolt upright and blinking. The driver passed it without trouble, but it took Isla only a few seconds to realise that she had passed the place where her parents had married.

The car came to a smooth stop and the passenger door opened. For the first time since meeting her at the airport, the driver gave her a smile.

“221b Baker Street, miss.”

“Thank you,” was all she managed to say as she stepped out of the car. The driver shut the door behind her and moved around to the boot to retrieve her bags. It was when he told her with a somewhat puzzled tone that she could go up that she realised that she had remained frozen to the spot, her gaze locked on the building in front of her. 221b Baker Street. Sat outside the flat were a few dozen people, some clutching cameras and some wearing black coats, or blue scarfs or deerstalkers. With some people, they wore all three.

On seeing Isla approach the building, the people with the cameras jumped to their feet and started calling Poppy’s name, pointing their cameras straight at her. The driver immediately stepped in front of her, covering her from the glare of the camera flashes.

“Don’t worry miss,” he said over his shoulder. “Just paparazzi – get inside, quick as you can, go on.”

Isla didn’t hesitate in scuttling inside. Thankfully, the door was unlocked. Shutting the door behind her, she leant against the wall to catch her breath. Okay, so _that_ was a surprise. Again, that must’ve been a regular occurrence for Poppy if she’d failed to mention it. From outside, she could hear the driver urging the paparazzi to leave. Isla sighed and brushed herself down.

The sound of a violin being played made her go still. Almost immediately, she smiled, recognising the tune as Bach. One of the more light and jovial tunes. One evening, near to the end of camp, Poppy had played her a CD of their father’s violin playing, saying he’d given it to her as a way to get to sleep during her time at camp (ironic, seeing as it had actually helped them stay awake the whole night, idly wondering which one their father might’ve played at his wedding to their mother).

Quickly, Isla walked up the steps, only stopping when a loud creak sounded from under her foot. The violin playing ceased. She froze, hearing murmurs of voices. A few moments passed before the music resumed, louder than before. Breathing a small sigh of relief, she jogged up the last few and opened the door to Baker Street. The sight she was greeted with was both heart-warming and overwhelming. Everyone was there: John, Mrs Hudson, even Mycroft.

What she was most focused on however was the man in the middle of the room. Dressed in a black suit with a crisp white shirt hidden underneath, he dextrously played his violin, moving with the rhythm of the piece. His hair was longer than the photograph, having grown from a classic short cut to an abundance of curls which stopped just above his shirt collar. He was more toned than the photograph too, having grown into his lean stature over the years. What pleased her most was the sheer relief when she realised that aside from the hair and the build, he had changed very little. He was exactly as she had imagined him to be.

As he was wrapped up in his playing, it took him a few moments to notice her. When he did though, he dropped his violin to his side and grinned at her.

“Mycroft insisted on sending the car,” was all he said. Isla swallowed back a gulp. He was _perfect_.

She couldn’t hold on any longer. Running forward, she practically barrelled into him, hugging him tightly. From behind her, she heard Mrs Hudson give a little call of “ _Aww_ ” at the sight, whilst John just gave a soft chuckle. Isla didn’t care about any of them however, not at that moment. Instead, she focused on the man who, on being hugged, laughed and knelt down, hugging her back just as tightly as he gently stroked at her hair.

Isla had always wondered what it would be like to meet her father for the very first time.

The reality beat out any illusions.


	6. Chapter 6

“We are now beginning our descent into Phoenix, Arizona, ladies and gentlemen. Please turn off all electronic devices, and thank you for flying with us today.”

Poppy blinked herself awake and took in her surroundings. Her gaze focused in on the window. Just beyond the glass, she saw it. The shape that made up the state of Arizona. The flicker of excitement that had been lying dormant for much of her trip began to surface. She was actually going to meet her. Molly Hooper. Her mother.After so, so many years.

The grin that had grown to cover almost all of her face remained as she walked down the aisle and down the steps and stepped onto the warm tarmac of the airport. A warm breeze whipped around her as she slowly moved forward with the crowd towards the arrivals gate.

She didn’t even step one foot into the arrivals gate before a cry of “Isla!” went up, and Poppy felt herself turn. She watched with a smile and saw how her mother continued to push through the crowd of waiting people, throwing hurried apologies over her shoulder as she went. Compared to the photograph, she was markedly different. After living in Phoenix for eleven years, her skin was less pale, and she had grown a few inches, but aside from that, she still had the same long chestnut-coloured waves as well as the same wide and warm brown eyes. Most importantly of all, she still had the exact same smile.

After eleven years, nine months, eight weeks and four hours of waiting, Poppy couldn’t do so any longer. She sprinted forward and fell into her mother’s waiting arms, locking her arms tightly around the shoulders of her mother and burying her face into her neck.

“Hello to you too!” Molly said, laughing happily as she squeezed at Poppy’s waist before getting to her feet.

“Come on,” she said. “Mary and Charlie are dying to see you!”

* * *

On the car ride home, Poppy stayed quiet as she listened to her mother chatter, animatedly telling about what happened over the last eight weeks. She was up for a promotion at work, and it seemed likely that she would get it. Mary had sadly split from her latest boyfriend but was taking the split remarkably well. Charlie was apparently still the same idiot as he’d ever been.

Poppy nodded and interjected at appropriate points, but for the most part, she just stayed silent. It was just so _lovely_ to be able to watch her mother; to be able to see her gestures, the inclinations in her voice, or the way she used her facial expressions to convey what she felt. She was so expressive, and so open. A major contrast to the way her father was when he was on a case.

“Sweetheart,” her mother said, giving out a burst of a laugh. “You’ve barely said a word! Normally you would’ve told me to be quiet by now. Are you okay?”

Poppy broke into a wide grin. “Sorry. I guess I’m just tired.”

Her mother’s features softened and she drew Poppy into a quick hug and kissed her on the top of her head. “Don’t worry. You’ll be in your own bed soon.”

The sound of a loud, insistent car horn behind her made her jump, and her mother laughed as she pulled the car into the next lane. She glanced to Poppy. “A whole summer you’ve been away, and still the traffic’s awful.”

At this, Poppy said nothing. She didn’t need to, as they had begun to arrive at the apartment building that her mother and Isla called home. Molly pulled up and stopped the car, throwing a grin to Poppy as she stepped outside.

She could do this, Poppy decided. She could. After all, no-one suspected anything. Did they?

“Knock, knock!”

Her head snapped up, only for her to see a pair of slate blue eyes staring straight at her. Mary grinned and knocked on the window again, making a beckoning motion with her hand. Poppy wasted no time in opening the door and stepping out onto the warm street. She was immediately scooped into a hug; one that was only interrupted by the sound of a short, happy bark. Mary laughed.

“We’ll get to you in a minute!” she said, glancing down towards Charlie who sat happily at Mary’s feet, wagging his tail and panting. Mary threw an arm around Poppy’s shoulder and steered her towards the flat, tugging a little at Charlie’s lead as they went.

“Your mum’s upstairs,” Mary said, seeing Poppy glance around before she gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “So come on. Tell me everything! How was camp? Did you meet anyone nice?”

“Oh, loads of people! There was a guy—”

Mary’s eyebrows shot upwards. “A guy? Should I be telling your mum, or is this something we’ll be keeping to ourselves?”

Poppy allowed herself a laugh. “No, he’s just a friend. I met a couple of other people too – including a girl from England.”

Mary, hearing this, immediately adopted an astonishing variety of English accents, swinging easily from broad Cockney to the cut glass upper class accent. She could see why Isla liked her so much. She was lovely; like a cool, non-blood related aunt who could make you laugh just by making a certain facial expression at you. It was inevitable really that she was helpless with laughter by the time they got to the apartment.

That laughter quickly ceased when she walked inside to find an intruder in the living room, casually watching some sports channel or other. With their body sprawled out on the large, squashy sofa, they held the television remote in their right hand whilst their left arm was thrown over their head to act as a makeshift pillow. Male, the intruder was muscular in build and dressed in the standard ‘cool’ t-shirt and jeans. On seeing him, Poppy stopped, frozen. Mary on the other hand, smiled—though a little too tightly to be genuine—and approached the man to tap him on the shoulder. He grinned and swung himself off the sofa and onto his feet, enveloping Mary into what looked like a bone-crunching hug.

“Mary!” he said brightly. “How you doing?”

“I’m alright,” was her somewhat curt reply. Then, a little quieter: “What are you doing here?”

His reply didn’t come, as Molly had entered the living room, a glass of orange juice in her hand. Like Poppy, she stopped on seeing the man but unlike Poppy, she smiled.

“Mark! This is a – surprise. I thought you were at _work_!” The last word came out of her mouth in a yelp as the man (or _Mark_ as she insisted on calling him) rushed forward to scoop her into his arms and lifted her off the ground with the force of his hug.

“What, and miss the homecoming?” he asked brightly as he put her back down on the ground. He leant closely towards Molly, but thankfully, her mother had more sense than him and she deftly backed away and sipped at her juice.

“That’s really thoughtful of you Mark – thank you.”

Annoyingly, she sounded like she meant it. Poppy’s scowl darkened. When Mark lowered himself to look straight at her with a standard charming smile, she only crossed her arms over her chest. He wasn’t charming her into a stupor.

“Hi,” he said. So he was starting off slowly. Clearly, he’d read up on the art of introducing oneself to a partner’s kids. Dad wouldn’t have to do that, Poppy thought smugly. Mark’s smile widened. Not genuine; mark of defence. Most likely subconscious.

“I’m Mark. I know your mommy.”

“That’s quite clear,” Poppy said shortly, glancing quickly towards her mother. “And she’s not my mommy; I’m not five. She’s my mom.”

“Okay, so she’s your mom. That’s cool. I hope we can get to know each other; your mom’s told me a lot about you.”

There was a painstaking moment of silence as Poppy’s gaze swept over the man. Already she felt irritated by him. She knew who he was, and she knew why he was here (all of that was obvious) so why did he feel the need to treat her like an idiot? She glanced at her mother, back to Mark, back to her mother and back to Mark again.

Finally, she spoke. “No.”

Without hesitating, she quickly stuck out her tongue, turned on her heels and ran towards Isla’s bedroom.

* * *

Mary was the one to chase after her. Mary was also the one to sigh heavily and lean against the doorway as she watched Poppy petulantly unpack, her gaze following every movement the angry eleven year old made.

“How long?” was the first question from Poppy’s mouth.

“Four months. They’re in the – honeymoon period.”

“Where did she meet him?”

“Work. He seems perfectly nice – from what I’ve seen of him.”

Poppy stopped and tilted her head, frowning. “Yet you don’t like him.”

“Christ,” Mary said with a chuckle as she stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. “Can’t hide anything from you can I? No, I don’t like him at all.”

“Why? Is it his smile?”

Mary shook her head and gently sat on the bed. “No. My reasoning’s a little more superficial than that. See, Mark never showed much interest in Molly until he learned of the existence of your grandparents.”

Although she didn’t show it, Poppy quickly racked her brain, rifling through the various lessons Isla had given her. Then it hit her: Nana and Granddad. They had moved out to America soon before their mother had done so, wanting to expand their wine making business. They’d succeeded too. Isla had complained regularly about the annual camping trip she had had to make every year there since she was small. She’d complained about Nana’s constant need to pick at her and clean, despite the maids she employed to keep their house spick and span every moment of every day. She had even gone so far as to nickname their Nana ‘Hoover’ because of the frequency in which she used it. Their Granddad however, was clearly Isla’s favourite. She only ever spoke favourably of him, spinning endless tales about the antics she and him would get up to during those summers.

Poppy cleared her throat. She continued to unpack. “You think he’s after Mum’s inheritance?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Mary said, raising an eyebrow. “Your mum’s clearly happy with him.”

“Yeah, well.” Poppy zipped up her bag and easily slipped it underneath the bed. She looked at Mary. “I don’t trust him.”

* * *

Fortunately, Mark seemed to notice that his presence wasn’t entirely welcome, and after giving her mother some fairly disgusting affectionate kisses goodbye, he left. For the rest of the afternoon and the evening, Poppy spent almost every moment she could with her mother. Even if they did the most mundane of activities and just watched the television for an hour or two, Poppy didn’t care. She was just happy to be with her mother.

Isla had talked about their mother a lot during their time at camp, but the one thing her words had been unable to capture was just how warm their mother was. It seemed to radiate from her; this inherent kindness she had. Her smile alone lit up a room. It was easy to see why Isla loved her so much, and how their father could’ve fallen in love with her.

It was strange to her really, being the other side of the world and without her father. She supposed she should’ve felt scared or homesick or both. Funnily enough, she didn’t—the pleasure of being with the mother she had never known was more than enough of a distraction. Of course she missed her father; she’d missed him for the entire time she had been at camp. But now, as she sat curled up on the squashy sofa with her mother, she missed him for an entirely different reason. It felt like even though there were two people in that room, the room was still vastly empty. It felt like there should’ve been two more people there, taking up the unused spaces.

Two people who were currently on the other side of the world in a flat above a sandwich shop.

It was at that moment that Poppy realised that the rip went much further than an old photograph.


	7. Chapter 7

Isla was woken up by the sound of a very impatient and very rude ringing sound. Grumbling under her breath, she drew herself up in bed and reached out to slam at the alarm button. When the ringing didn’t stop, it took her a moment to realise that it was her phone, the call screen glowing with Poppy’s name. With a tired groan, she picked it up and clamped it to her ear.

“Isla! I am so glad you picked up!”

“Poppy, it’s 2 in the morning. Can’t this wait?”

“No,” Poppy snapped. “It can’t.”

“Alright, alright,” Isla said as she leant against the headboard. “But make it quick. My eyelids are already drooping here.”

“Okay, so I met Mum – she’s wonderful, you didn’t do her nearly enough justice I swear – but we have a problem.” Poppy took a breath before continuing, almost as if she was preparing herself. “Mum’s in love.”

Isla’s only response was to snort. “Nonsense. Mum doesn’t fall in love. I told you that.”

“Well, she’s got a boyfriend at least! His name’s Mark, and frankly, he’s an idiot. All blonde and cheesy smiles.”

“Then we’ve got nothing to worry about,” Isla said, snuggling down into her duvet and yawning. “It won’t last anyway.”

Poppy sighed. “I don’t know, Em. He kept kissing her when he left today, and she didn’t seem to mind it.”

“Hm. Clearly she likes him a little bit if she lets him kiss her. Tell you what; keep tabs on him for the next few days, see what happens.”

“Okay, I’ll do that,” Poppy said after a moment, but Isla knew her twin, and she knew when she was trying to hide her disappointment. She smiled.

“Just because you’ve got to keep tabs on them doesn’t mean you can’t indulge in a little bit of sabotage.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that!”

Isla scoffed. “Yes you were.”

Poppy giggled quietly. “Yeah, I guess I was. Speak to you soon?”

“Speak soon. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Isla had just about hung up and was ready to go back to sleep when there was a knock on her door, rapid but gentle. The universal sign of a concerned father.

Sure enough, her father’s voice floated through the door. “Poppy? Are you awake?”

Isla didn’t reply, curling up in the bed and shutting her eyes. She kept her eyes shut even when she heard the door open and heard her father creep inside, his bare feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. She kept her eyes shut as his fingers delicately brushed her hair out of her face and as he kissed her gently on the top of her head.

“Sleep well,” he murmured before he left again, shutting the door behind him. Isla still kept her eyes shut, now well on the way to sleep, but the smallest of smiles crept onto her face. It stayed there right up until she awoke six hours later to the sounds of Bach. Her smile widened as she sat up and tiptoed out of the bedroom. She followed the sound to the living room where she found her father, stood at the window and dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown whilst spread out on the floor there were a series of case files. Unlike when she had arrived, he noticed her immediately and grinned, drawing his bow away and putting his violin to one side.

“Morning,” he said brightly as he sat cross-legged on the floor and glanced at the case files (which were, if the way he went through them was anything to go by, in some sort of order). Isla gently moved towards him and he motioned for her to sit in his lap. She did so.

“What are you doing then?”

“Studying.”

“Oh.” She had to stop herself from asking what the term meant (no doubt Poppy would know already). For the time being, she decided that it meant he was probably looking over old cases to see if they brought up anything new for his current case.

“What’s the case?”

“Burglary,” her father said matter-of-factly, picking up one case file from the year 2007 and flicking through it before he dropped it back on the floor. “Thought it was an open-and-shut, but—”

His mutterings were cut off by the sound of footsteps. Both father and daughter looked up to see a grey-haired man of about 50-odd standing in the doorway. Sherlock took one look at the man and his brows furrowed.

“No.”

“Five minutes.”

“Lestrade – it’s a no.”

“Is this a homicide?” Isla asked quietly, to which Lestrade blinked and her father nodded.

“And that is precisely why I am saying no.”

“What, because of me?”

Her father nodded again. Isla fought the temptation to pout or argue—Poppy probably wouldn’t question her father’s refusal, so she wouldn’t either. Lestrade sighed.

“We really, really need your help. Can’t Mrs Hudson look after Poppy for a bit?”

“Lestrade, considering you have children of your own, I’d assume you’d be a bit more sympathetic about my refusal?”

“I know, but this is a 10, Sherlock.”

Her father straightened up, interested but wary. “A genuine 10 or a lying-to-try-and-get-me-interested 10?”

Lestrade’s answer came without hesitation. “Genuine.”

Her father huffed, but she could tell that he was itching to go. Without saying a word, she stood up and was quickly followed by her father.

“I’ll look after Poppy,” Lestrade offered. “Dimmock’s down there, so you should be able to have a look without punching anyone.”

“Is Anderson there?”

“Yes, but with a whole team of other pathologists, so you won’t be forced to work with him. Stop making excuses Sherlock. I can look after Poppy for five minutes – only five minutes mind you—”

“I’ll only need five,” her father said, sniffing slightly with contempt and squaring his shoulders. Isla stifled a giggle as he disappeared from the room to get dressed, his phone already in his hand and tapping out a text (to John she presumed), leaving her and Lestrade alone. Lestrade smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“So… do you mind if I have a cuppa?”

She shook her head, and followed on as Lestrade quickly entered into the kitchen. She sat herself at the table and watched him. It was like watching someone go around a kitchen showroom—familiar with the equipment but oh-so-careful not to break anything. When he did turn around, he jumped slightly at the sight of her but smiled all the same to take a sip of tea.

There were a few moments of silence between them which was only broken by the sound of her father saying goodbye, promising to be back in 5 minutes and closing the door behind him.

“He really likes his work, doesn’t he?” She said it more to herself, but Lestrade still felt the need to answer her.

“Yeah,” he said, putting his cup of tea on the kitchen table and sitting down opposite her. “Though sometimes… no.”

“What is it?”

“Sometimes, with him – sometimes you get the feeling he’s not entirely happy you know?”

She leaned forward. “Like he’s missing something, you mean?”

“Uh – I guess so. I mean, he’s a nightmare often enough, but it’s not difficult to wonder if there’s a reason for it. Everyone’s got a reason, right?”

She didn’t dare tell him that he was looking at the reason he spoke of.

* * *

Footsteps—heavier than her father’s—sounded on the steps. John stepped through the front door. Both Isla and Lestrade frowned.

“I’m relieving you,” John said cheerfully as he went into the kitchen. “Sherlock needs you on the scene.”

Lestrade grumbled under his breath and swiftly departed from the flat. (Isla decided to ignore any swearing she might’ve heard as he passed her.) John entered the living room, carrying a cup of tea. On seeing the scattered case files, he rolled his eyes but decided to leave them, sinking into the second armchair in the living room.

“So, Poppy. How was camp?”

Isla shrugged and curled up on the sofa. “It was good – I had a really great time. Made a few friends, actually.”

John broke into a sunny grin. “Great. Your dad will be pleased to know that. Lestrade alright with you today?”

“Yeah, he was fine,” Isla said with a shrug. She paused before she spoke again, focusing on John. “Uncle John, do you think – do you think my dad’s happy?”

To her surprise, John sighed, almost as if he’d talked about this before. (She silently thanked Poppy’s endless curiosity for that.) “Honestly? Don’t know. I gave up trying to work out what your dad thinks long ago.”

“Yeah, but… if you had to give an answer, what would you say?”

“I’d say… I’d say it’s none of your business.”

Isla stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose, to which John laughed.

“Okay, you got me,” he said, putting his tea to one side. “So, your dad. He is happy, believe me. Especially when he’s on a case. But there’s something... something missing, you know?”

John didn’t elaborate further than that. He didn’t get the chance, as the sound of footsteps on the stairs distracted him.

“Turned out to be a 9, rather than a 10,” her father said lightly. Isla grinned and turned her head to see him standing at the front door, peeling off his gloves and his scarf as he stepped inside. She jumped off the sofa and ran towards him to hug him tightly in greeting.

“Hello,” he said softly, gently stroking at her hair. “Sorry for taking so long. Anderson was being annoying.”

“It’s fine,” Isla said, stepping away from him and sitting back on the sofa. “Uncle John and I were just talking.”

Her father tilted his head slightly as he looked at her and settled into his own armchair. “Oh? About what?”

“Nothing much,” John said, taking another sip of his tea. “Camp, mostly. Apparently Poppy made friends there.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He didn’t need to; his expression said everything. It was remarkable really, how Uncle John and Sherlock could communicate a whole conversation just through their facial expressions. It actually reminded Isla a little of Mary.

“Oh? Well then – all that nagging you gave me about how you had to go worked out well,” her father said with a smile. Removing his coat, he picked up his violin out of its case and began to play.

John straightened his shoulders. “Well. I should be going. I’ve got an interview later.” He looked to Sherlock. “Text me if there are any developments, yeah?”

Her father gave a sharp nod in reply. Satisfied, John departed, giving Isla a cheerful nod. Isla smiled and looked back to her father as she tucked her knees under her chin.

“Dad…”

“What is it? Busy,” he grunted. Poppy had mentioned this. His mind palace. Now she was seeing it in action, it didn’t seem like such a ridiculous premise. She wasn’t however, going to give up just because of a mind palace. She tried again.

“I want to talk about Mum.”

Her father’s eyes snapped open. The look he gave her was cautious.

“Why?”

“Because I’m almost 12 years old, and I don’t even know her name.” Poppy eyed him. “She can’t have just vanished, Dad.”

When her father remained stoic in his silence, she sighed and got to her feet, moving over to him to poke at his sides. He grunted again. From what Poppy had told her, and from what she had seen in the last few days, their father was always one to be dramatic.

“You’re not going to give up, are you?”

She shook her head. His response was to roll his eyes, sitting up and patting his lap. Isla grinned and happily sat on his lap, where he cuddled her close.

“So,” he said finally. “Should I start at the beginning? Or is that too conventional?”

“Actually, could you… I was just wondering – why did you and Mum break up? Was it because – was it because of me?”

Her father went silent again, his lips thinning. She sighed, nudging him a little.

“Come on Dad. Please?” she asked, eyes wide as they could go. He gave her a look, but when she pouted, that was when he relented.

“It wasn’t because of you. Your mother and I – I suppose it’s because we were just too young. Did things too fast.”

She curled closer to him, tightening her hands into fists and releasing them again as she summoned up the courage to speak.

“Do you think – do you think that, if you ever met her again, you’d be the right age?”

The first response to her question was an echoing moment of silence. The second response was a somewhat terse mumble of the subject being closed. Isla nodded, biting back a smile. She knew what it meant when adults avoided questions. It meant they didn’t want to give the answer.

Unfortunately for her father, but fortunately for her, his expression gave away that unspoken answer: _yes._


	8. Chapter 8

The next few days in Phoenix, Arizona was a busy time for Poppy. In the last four months, Mark seemed to have made himself an almost permanent fixture in her mother’s life. He visited every morning, dropping off food, flowers or any other kind of gift that he ‘just happened’ to buy. Sometimes, if it was his day off, he’d stay behind to look after her whilst her mother went to work. (It was on those days that the silence practically echoed off the walls.) He tried his damnedest to charm her on those days, giving her gifts of dolls and teddy bears and other gifts well below her age range, but Poppy could see and smell a rat when she saw one. There was no way in hell she would allow a rat to get close to her mother.

Apparently, Mary felt the same, as she saw no qualms in aiding Poppy in the sabotage. If Molly and Mark happened to be going to the park for a walk, or out to see a movie, either Mary and Poppy would accompany them, with Poppy citing the need to be in Molly’s company and Mary claiming she’d “been hankering to see that movie for ages”.

Her mother seemed perfectly fine with the idea of having either her daughter or her friend as escorts, but for Mark, the appeal seemed to wear off rather quickly and after the first three days, his visits became a lot less frequent. (He claimed it was work, but Poppy knew different.)

As a result, mother and daughter were able to spend a lot more time together. Much of their time was spent in the apartment, but it didn’t really matter what they did as such. Not to Poppy at least. She was simply focused on savouring every moment she could. That excitement, that contented feeling of bliss, deflated however when her mother announced they were going to the park. Her mother had remained decidedly coy on why exactly they were going, but that shyness only served to make it all the more clear.

Molly and Poppy settled themselves underneath a large enough tree; there, dappled sunlight fell over them, shielding them from the warm sun.

“Mum—” Poppy said eventually, biting at her sandwich. “I think it’s time to talk about the F word.”

Her mother almost choked on her drink. “The F word?!”

“Yeah, you know – _my father._ ”

“Oh. What do you want to know about him?”

Poppy gave a nonchalant shrug. “How you met might be a start.”

At this, her mother laughed. “True. Well, we actually met through work, back when I lived in London. I worked at St. Bart’s—”

A loud cry sounded behind them. “Molly! Isla!”

Poppy swallowed a groan. Mark came running up the path, clad in a suit and tie. Running his fingers through his hair, he came to a stop beside them, smiling down at Molly.

“A picnic and you didn’t invite me? I’m offended!” he said playfully. Molly smiled and stood up, brushing herself down.

“Hello,” she said brightly before she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I thought you were at work.”

“I was just on my way there,” he said dismissively, and he moved his lips close to Molly’s ear. Poppy pointedly looked the other way, but she couldn’t help but hear what Mark had to say next, however softly he tried to say it. “Have you told her yet?”

Molly shook her head gently. Poppy’s smile slipped from her face. Strangely enough, her first thought wasn’t for herself. Rather, it was for Isla. She had always been adamant that their mother hadn’t moved on, that she didn’t have the capacity to move on, and yet here Poppy sat with the evidence right in front of her of exactly the opposite. Their plan had failed even before it had the chance to be begun.

“Well,” Mark said, his voice more irritatingly jovial than it had ever been, “I’d best be going. See you later Molls.” He kissed her quickly and turned away, continuing down the path’s pathway, the damage already done.

Poppy didn’t even have to look at her mother to know that she knew she had heard; that she knew just exactly what it was she needed to be told. Slowly, her mother crouched down, her eyes locked on the now frozen Poppy.

“Isla, believe me – I wanted to tell you as soon as you got home—”

No. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face it. Not now. Probably not ever.

Moving before she could think, she ran down through the park, her feet flying over the grassy ground. She heard her mother call her name, but she kept running. She wouldn’t hear it. She just _wouldn’t_.

When she felt herself being tugged back, she stopped. She didn’t even have time to catch her breath before her mother was knelt before her and was pulling her into a hug. Her chest heaved, and she realised with a start that she had been crying. Her sobs came out in short, heavy breaths, ugly in their force.

“I’m sorry Isla—” her mother said quickly as she kissed at her hair and drew back to wipe away the tears that streamed down Poppy’s face. “Christ, you scared me! Please, please don’t ever do that again.”

“I don’t – want – you to – marry…” Poppy sobbed, but her mother shushed her, squeezing her shoulders in a gesture of comfort. She smiled widely.

“Don’t worry. We’ll leave it for another day, okay?”

Poppy nodded slowly, her fingers holding at the sleeves of her mother’s shirt. “Okay.”

* * *

They made their way back to the apartment in silence. When they got there, Charlie greeted them with a cheerful, his dog brain blissfully unaware of the tension that had surfaced between mother and daughter, and he scampered on behind their heels as they stepped towards the living room. Together, Poppy and Molly sunk into the sofa and remained there for a good few minutes, silently cuddling one another.

Eventually though, her mother had to leave. It was with a smile and a promise to be back soon (she avoided mentioning Mark) that she said goodbye. Poppy just about managed to return the smile, but it had little to no potency behind it. Yet her mother continued to smile even as she stood up, got her bag and left.

It was funny really. In all of the excitement and intrigue that came with keeping tabs on her mother’s love life, Poppy hadn’t really been given the chance to look around the apartment that Isla called home. She had grown familiar with it over the time she had been there, but it had always been in her peripheral vision. It had never been the focus of her concentration. Now that it was, she found herself to be quite surprised by what she saw. It was bigger—much bigger—than Baker Street, with cleanly painted walls and parquetted wooden floors. The furniture was homely and there had obviously been no expense spared in the purchase of it. Photographs and mementos were dotted on various surfaces, all shining examples of the life she had missed out on. (She briefly wondered if Isla felt the same as she did when she looked at photos of their father with Poppy.)

She hesitated to step inside her mother’s bedroom. That was after all, private to her mother. The clue was in the name. She heard Isla inside her head. _C’mon, don’t be a spoilsport! Do it! You never know; you might find something interesting._

“Two minutes,” she told herself. “Then you’re out of there.” It was with that that she gripped the door handle and stepped inside.

* * *

Her mother’s room wasn’t quite what she expected. To tell the truth, she hadn’t really thought about what her mother’s bedroom would look like. She might’ve expected it to be quite feminine. Certainly it was that with its white coloured walls and lightly-coloured bedspread, and the various trinkets and mementos that were dotted around the room on various surfaces (her bedside table being one), but aside from that it was quite standard. A set of bookshelves was what caught her eye. She stepped towards them, her fingers reaching out and tracing over the titles that were lined up.

Some were scientific journals. Others were books that had been bought but never read. There was one book however that carried all the marks of being well-thumbed and frequently read. One, a book of fairy tales, had its pages yellowed, but clearly never touched.

That made the worn white envelope sticking out of the top of the pages all the more noticeable.

Poppy’s brow creased. Odd.

Carefully, she took the book from the shelf and opened it, flicking through the pages. Her heart almost stopped when she saw the loopy handwriting across it, forming one very familiar name: Sherlock Holmes.

Any thoughts of privacy went from Poppy’s head and she peeled the envelope open. She had to read it. There had to be something about them, about what had happened in there. Why else wouldn’t her mother send it? What would be the point otherwise of keeping an unsent letter in what was obviously an otherwise ignored book?

Her eyes scanned the letter. With every line, her heart broke a little more.

_Hi Sherlock._

_It’s me. It’s Molly. Isla just turned two, if you want to know. Couple of days ago, actually. My birthday is still a few weeks off. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you? Well, you did. Maybe you’ve deleted it. Maybe you’ve deleted me. Hard to tell really, when I’m practically on the opposite of the world to you. You know, I could’ve moved to Wales, or Ireland, but no. I moved to America. Guess I’m just dramatic that way, eh?_

_Oh, but Isla… she’s so adorable, Sherlock. She’s got your hair. I mean, it’s not as curly as yours, but it’s getting there. I’m hoping she keeps it short—can you imagine brushing long hair as curly as yours? Gosh! I remember how I sometimes struggled to comb your hair. I wonder if you’ve cut it by now. Probably._

_I’m using that word a lot nowadays. Will you be able to come out for drinks tonight? Probably. Do you think Isla could come over to play? Probably. Can I really afford that extra bar of chocolate? Probably. Are you available for coffee when you come off shift? Probably. ~~Should you and I ever have divorced?~~_

_Of course, we all know what that word means, don’t we? I know I do. Do you? (God, now I’m sounding like that Jareth character from that film, Labyrinth. Just don’t get me started on voodoo, okay?) But yeah. “Probably”. It’s just another way of softening the blow, isn’t it? Really, what I’m saying is “yes, but it’s inevitably going to be no.”_

_But Isla. That’s who I wanted to talk about. Isla, Isla, Isla. Like I said, she’s adorable. She’s walking and talking too (they usually do at this age). She’s a regular little chatterbox – but she certainly doesn’t get it from me! Honestly, I see so much of you in her. It’s like living with a pocket version of you. I wonder what Poppy’s like. Is she like you? Or perhaps Mother Nature’s played a cruel trick on us. Maybe we’re living with mini-versions of each other._

_I don’t mind that though, I find. It’s quite funny really, I think. By having a mini-version of you, I’m getting all these tiny reminders. Your hair’s one, obviously. Your piercing, I-can-see-into-your-soul gaze. (Let me tell you, seeing that on a two year old is very weird if you’re not used to it!) She hasn’t quite got it yet, but I’m pretty sure she’ll have your wit too._

_Yeah. All little reminders._

_Maybe I should come out and say it, right here and now. After all, there’s no-one to see me, and there’s no-one to hear and chastise me for it._

_I miss you, Sherlock. It’s stupid I know. After two years away from you, I should be over you by now. I should be moving on. So why aren’t I? It’s not the superficial things I miss (though there is a serious lack of cheekbones around here); it’s the little things. The things that make me smile, like your mind palace; the things that make me laugh like I’ve never laughed before or since. I even miss the things that infuriate me, like your almost violent distaste for boredom. (I do feel sorry for that poor wall – has it received any more beatings over the years? I hope not.) But yes, I miss you. In spite of your intolerance for walls._

_Sometimes, when I’m lonely – always when I’m lonely – I wonder if you miss me too. I wonder if you’ve still got space for me in that mind palace of yours. I wonder if you look at Poppy, and see me like I see you when I look at Isla. I wonder, when/if you do, you feel the same ache that I do._

_I wonder other things too, if you’re, uh, wondering. (But be honest, it’s a miracle you’re still reading this.) I wonder how Poppy’s doing. God, but do I wonder. I hope she’s doing well. She probably is, considering she’s got you for a dad. I bet Mycroft spoils her rotten. Has she already got security clearance, or is that for her 5 th birthday? Sorry. Couldn’t help myself._

_There’s one big thing that I wonder though. It’s probably the one thing I think about most. Were we right? Did we -- have we – done the right thing?_

_Well. I don’t know about you, but I think I know the answer to that._

_And it’s that damn word all over again: Probably._

She was crying again. Only now, she didn’t know why. Perhaps because she was upset. Perhaps she was angry. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. Automatically, her fingers found her phone, buried in the pocket of her jeans. Automatically, she tapped in a number she knew well. It took two rings for her sister to answer. The first thing she heard was a wide yawn.

“We’ve got to work on a schedule or something. You realise it’s what, 3 in the morning here?”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just – I had to talk to someone.”

Poppy could almost hear her sister jerk upright in concern. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“A lot of things really. Mum’s engaged.”

“What? No, you’re wrong – Mom would never—”

“She is. She told me.” Poppy felt her voice shake. “But that’s not the worst thing.”

Isla scoffed. “Oh really? And what could be worse than our Mum getting engaged?”

“I found a letter, in Mum’s room. Isla… she still loves Dad.”

“Yet she’s marrying someone else?”

“I don’t know either. I think she’s trying to move on.”

“Yeah,” Isla said quietly. “Yeah. I’m sure she is.”

Poppy frowned, clutching her phone tighter to her ear. “Isla? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just – I guess I thought I was enough for her, you know.”

To this, Poppy had no reply. She tried to speak, but nothing of worth came. Just a small mumbled “sorry”. Isla, of course, dismissed it with a soft, breezy laugh. She claimed she was being silly, and with that, she hung up. Poppy only realised she was still holding onto her phone when she heard the front door slam.

* * *

Isla was numb. Her duvet, too. It felt too hot now, too stifling. She had to move. Had to get some air, somewhere to breathe. As quietly as she could, she moved out of her bedroom and out of the flat, tiptoeing down the stairs. (She was careful to avoid the one that creaked.) When all she could see was the front door to 221, she finally stopped and sat on the bottom step. Ever so slowly, her fingers wound themselves into her hair and she curled herself up into a ball. Silent tears dripped down her cheeks.

Everything about her hurt. Her stomach was twisted into knots, and her head spun as her mind refused to settle on one single thought. Was this what it was like for her father—oh God. Her father; her dad. Sherlock Holmes. It wasn’t just her mother who wasn’t getting what she truly wanted. It was him too. The most frustrating thing about it was they had done this themselves. They were the ones who had separated their children; the ones who had to move across the whole Atlantic Ocean just to try and move on from one another. Merely thinking about it made her want to scream.

A warm hand touched at her shoulder. Her head snapped up and she was met by the sympathetic gaze of Mrs Hudson, who on seeing a crying girl sitting on the bottom stair, smiled.

“Hello love,” she whispered.

Isla wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “Hello.”

“Do you want me to get your Dad?”

Isla shook her head. “No, no. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Not on that step you won’t,” Mrs Hudson said, her tone as sympathetic as ever. “There’s a terrible draft. You’ll get so cold. Come on dear. I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

Isla was up on her feet before she realised that she was moving. Mrs Hudson wrapped her arm around her shoulders and Isla instinctively looped her arms around Mrs Hudson’s waist, snuggling close to her as they crept into 221A.

Mrs Hudson’s flat was stuffy in its warmth, but it was better than sitting outside on the bottom step. Humming slightly to herself, Mrs Hudson bustled around her small kitchenette, making up two cups of tea and putting biscuits on a small china plate. Isla smiled wryly when she placed the plate in front of her.

Rich Teas. Of course. The staple British comfort food. Almost idly, she picked one up and nibbled at it, even though she couldn’t really register the taste, not with her mind still racing like it was. Mrs Hudson moved towards the small table and sat down, gently pushing a mug of tea towards Isla. With a grateful smile, she took up the mug and blew on it before she took a sip. Mrs Hudson smiled, her lips hovering over the edge of her cup.

“Feeling better?”

“Much, thank you.”

“Do you want to talk about it dearie? I’m all ears if you do. After all, sometimes it’s nice to have someone to lean on, isn’t it?”

Isla nodded and wiped at her eyes. She wouldn’t start crying again. Just because someone was being kind didn’t mean she should lose her mind.

“It all seemed so easy at camp.” She’d meant to think it, but somehow with the combination of kind words, tea and a stuffy flat, she had ended up talking. Mrs Hudson frowned, sitting up slightly.

“What did dear?”

Christ, but she needed to tell someone. _Anyone_. Even if it was the elderly landlady of her father. Sighing heavily, she put down her tea and her hands fell into her lap. She kept her eyes focused on them as she spoke again.

“Did you know – that – that I had a twin sister?”


	9. Chapter 9

“You found it then.”

Poppy almost jumped out of her skin at the sound. Whipping round, she saw Mary leaning against the doorway, arms folded over her chest.

Lie, her brain told her. Lie through your teeth. Come on! Make something up!

She said nothing. It would’ve been pointless to lie. Even the most unobservant of people would’ve pieced it together by now.  Mary sighed and sat on the bed, patting the space beside her. Slowly, Poppy sat the letter still in her hands. Mary still said nothing; simply waited.

Finally, Poppy spoke. “Why didn’t she send this? Why?”

Mary shrugged. “Scared I guess. Scared that he would run after her.”

“But why would she be scared? My dad wasn’t abusive – was he?”

Mary shook her head. “No, he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t. But you know when you want something – and I mean really want something? Well, sometimes, we can want something so much… we get scared of it. That’s what happened with your mum.”

“Not _everyone_ gets scared,” Poppy said quietly, looking everywhere but Mary. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t have even been thinking of doing it. God, but Isla would be so upset to know she was doing this, but she could trust Mary. She knew that.

Mary frowned. “What did you say?”

“I said, not everyone gets scared. You say that people can become scared of what they really want, but – but what if you want something so much – God, I’m not putting this right. Imagine there was something you wanted, more than anything. Imagine you’ve waited your whole life to have it. Well, you’d do anything to get it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I guess I would, but what has this got to do with anything?”

Poppy took a deep breath and finally looked at Mary full in the face. Her voice, rounded and modulated and clear, pounded in her ears. “I’m not Isla.”

A gasp shot through Mary, and her hands flew to her mouth in shock, her slate blue eyes widening in disbelief as she gazed at Poppy with new eyes. Gradually, her hands fell away from her face.

“You’re not—? You’re – oh my God. You’re _Poppy_?”

“I am.” She was immediately swept up into the tightest hug she had been given by an adult, and she heard Mary let out a loud belly laugh.

“Oh my God,” she said again, pulling away and grinning. “Poppy, oh my – just… how? I remember when you were a tiny baby – don’t you remember? Oh, of course you don’t! But now look at you! All tall, and gangly, and _curly_! How did you—?”

“Mum and Dad sent me and Isla to the same summer camp,” Poppy explained with a laugh. Mary rolled her eyes and let out another laugh, biting at her bottom lip.

“Great minds think alike, eh?”

“Seems like it,” Poppy said. Her cheeks almost ached from the wideness of her smile. Mary hugged her again, just as the front door slammed and the sound of her mother’s voice floated down the hallway.

“Anybody home? Isla?”

The letter was snatched from her hands and she felt herself being pushed forward into the hallway. Poppy grinned as she locked eyes with her mother. “Hi mum,” she heard herself say and her mother smiled, putting her things away as she moved into the kitchen.

“Everything go okay at work?” Poppy asked hesitantly. Her mother nodded.

“Yeah. What do you want tonight? I can make some pizza if you like,” her mother said, opening the fridge and looking inside. Poppy glanced into the bedroom to see that Mary was still hiding there, peeking out from behind the doorway. On seeing Poppy look to her, she gestured quickly towards Molly and quietly shut the door.

“Uh… pizza would be great,” she said falteringly, stepping forward and sitting on one of the kitchen chairs. Her mother smiled widely and took out a pizza box, shutting the fridge with a deft push of her hips. Although she was smiling, Poppy could tell that she was avoiding touching on the sensitive subject that was her engagement.

In fact, she only broached it a little more than half an hour later when the two of them were sat at the kitchen table and both chewing lightly on warm pizza (Mary had skilfully snuck out of the apartment whilst Molly was preoccupied with cooking).

“I guess I should come out and say it,” her mother said suddenly, a little too quickly. “Isla… I’m marrying Mark.”

She watched her daughter, anxious. Poppy slowly finished off her slice of pizza in stone silence, making a point to look everywhere but her mother. When she did look at her mother, her gaze was the most intense she could’ve made it. Molly almost had to restrain herself from flinching.

Yet still Poppy said nothing. If she said something, she might’ve started yelling. That or crying. Maybe both.

Instead, she just turned on her heels and stomped from the kitchen. The slam of her bedroom door followed soon after. Molly slowly leaned forward until her forehead bumped against the wood of the table. She let out a soft scream of frustration.

* * *

Inwardly, she chastised herself. She was a fool to have thought that Isla would take the news well. She’d hoped that maybe she would have had some time to think over and become more accepting of the news, but it was obviously not to be. Why Molly was surprised, she didn’t quite know. Isla had never really been one for change, especially when she was younger. She hated seeing it happen in other people’s lives; let alone her own.

She’d have to talk to her of course. Tell her that Mark was alright really. Despite Isla’s propensity to think the opposite, he was a nice guy. Sweet, attentive, generous, handsome. He was everything she should want, and she did want him. Why else would she have said yes to the man if she didn’t want him? And she couldn’t keep waiting, not for _him_ (eleven years, and she still couldn’t even name him in her own thoughts. How pathetic). Waiting didn’t do anyone any good. It it wasn’t fair on her. It certainly wasn’t fair on Isla.

The sound of her name being called alerted her to the presence of her fiancé. She sat up, watching as Mark bounded into the room, a bouquet of red roses clutched in his hand. Seeing Molly, he grinned and moved over to her.

“Hey,” he chirped, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he put the flowers in front of her. She tried a smile, but it didn’t quite take. Mark frowned, raising her eyebrow.

“It went that bad huh?”

“Considering she’s now locked in her bedroom, I’d say yes.”

“Ah. No worries – I’ll talk to her,” he said. She tried to argue against the idea, but she was swiftly silenced by a quick, unexpected kiss. Before she could even blink in surprise, Mark was gone.

* * *

It was completely unfair. She and Isla had gone to all of this trouble, and then their mother had to go and get engaged to someone else! Someone who she, by all accounts, didn’t really love! She curled against herself tighter when she heard a knock on the door. She rolled her eyes when she heard Mark’s voice float through the door.

“Isla…” he wheedled, knocking again. “Can you let me in? I just wanna talk.”

“Go. Away.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. C’mon – it’s best we be friends sooner rather than later.” He paused. “I can stay out here all afternoon, if you want me to.”

Poppy sighed heavily and aimed a brief glare at the door. Sitting up, she trudged towards it, grabbed at the handle and swung it open. Mark grinned down at her. Poppy’s glare deepened as she appraised him.

“You don’t need to bother,” she said crisply. “It’s obvious what you’re after.”

Mark’s bright, cheesy smile slacked but his eyes widened with feigned innocence.

“What?”

Poppy just snorted and stepped back into her bedroom, sitting on her bed. “You’re only marrying my mum because of the money.”

Mark laughed nervously, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, let’s see. According to latest statistics, the average marriage lasts for 32 years. Let’s assume that those couples have at least one thing in common. The only thing you’ve got in common with my mum is that you both work at the same hospital. Aside from that, you’re horrendously different. Where you like sports, she likes board games. Where she likes documentaries, you prefer reality television. And where you like tea, she prefers coffee. I don’t know about you, but I’m beginning to see a pattern.”

Mark was no longer grinning. Instead, he looked downright annoyed. Glowering, he crouched in front of Poppy.

“Isla, look. Listen to me. You can throw every tantrum you want. I don’t _care._ Frankly, neither does your mom. No amount of sabotage can prevent me marrying her.”

Poppy blinked, nonplussed by the display. Instead, she just smirked and raised an eyebrow. Her father could’ve wiped the floor with him.

“Wanna bet?”


	10. Chapter 10

Blissfully unaware of the progress made by her twin, Isla sat in her father’s chair at 221b Baker Street, watching with a smile on her face at the gathering of people that were scattered around the living room. John was stood by the mantelpiece, along with her father. Mrs Hudson was sat on the sofa with Lestrade. Mycroft was stood by the window, staunchly avoiding conversation.

“I hope the traffic isn’t too bad,” Lestrade muttered, glancing at his watch. “I promised the kids I’d be home before their bedtime.”

“Well, if Mycroft doesn’t start a war on the way home, I’m sure you’ll be fine,” her father said, earning a thin-lipped smile from Mycroft and a good-natured laugh from the others.

“I think Uncle Mycroft’s probably more concerned with America’s shutdown to be honest,” Isla muttered. Only when she saw Mrs Hudson subtly shake her head did she realise the mistake she’d made. It was Mycroft however who was the one to make a point of it.

“And what do you know about that, Poppy?” he asked, with a damning amount of calm. Isla squirmed slightly in her seat. Although she only had the eyes of five people on her, it felt like it was the entire world looking at her. She had to get out of there.

That feeling only increased when her phone beeped. Quickly, she removed it from her jeans pocket and opened the message. It was from Poppy, but all that was included was a picture of a piece of paper. On that paper, there were three large letters: S.O.S.

Wobbling slightly, she got to her feet and smiled what she hoped was a polite one. “Excuse me. I just, uh – need some air. I’ll only be a minute.”

The silence as she left was almost deafening.

* * *

Once out of 221b, she was running. She had to talk to Poppy. It didn’t matter if it was midnight over there. She had to talk to her and find out what the _hell_ was happening. She turned the corner and her heart lifted when she saw two red telephone boxes standing there. Jumping inside one, she grabbed her phone and dialled her sister’s number. There were approximately three rings before a panicked voice answered. Isla sighed with relief. Poppy.

“Isla! Thank God you phoned! Where are you?”

“Phone box – it was the only way I could get some privacy – but I’ll have to be quick. What’s happened? Is it Mum?”

“No, it isn’t Mum. Well, it is her, but it’s not _directly_ her—”

Isla sighed. “Poppy, wait. Calm down and tell me what’s happened.”

“Okay, well – Mum’s getting married.”

“You told me that already.”

“I know, but she’s getting married to the most awful man on the planet! He’s horrid! He’s even more awful than I thought. He clearly only wants Mum’s inheritance – honestly, I don’t think he even loves her!”

Oh. Obviously, they had some work to do. “Okay,” she said finally. “We have to work fast. I’ll tell Dad about the whole thing tonight—”

“Isla, no! You can’t!”

“Why not?”

“It’s – it’s not part of the plan!”

“Neither is our mom getting married. Look, it’ll be alright. Trust me. I have to go. They’ll be wondering where I am. I’ll talk to you tonight, okay? We’ll go over everything else then.”

“Wait—” She didn’t hear what else her sister had to say, for she’d already hung up, burst out of the phone box and bumped straight into a thin-bordering-on-chubby man. An apology began to trip off of her tongue, but it died away when she recognised the man as her uncle, Mycroft Holmes.

She went white. He arched an eyebrow and gracefully raised his hand. A taxi pulled up beside the pavement.

“Well,” he began, glancing at her. “I think it might be best if we take a small stroll in the park?”

“How long have you known?” she asked quietly. Either Mycroft failed to hear her or decided to ignore her, for he turned away from her and stepped inside the waiting taxi. It was with a sigh that she climbed into the taxi, settling in beside him. The driver pulled away. Isla fidgeted, her hands intertwining and untwining from themselves and twisting at the fabric of her coat.

“To answer your question,” Mycroft turned his head to look straight at her, “I’ve known since the start.”

Isla’s stomach twisted into a knot, and she felt the stirring of nausea. Of course he’d known.

* * *

The silence between them remained for the entirety of the taxi journey, as they stepped outside and onto the large green plain. Together they strolled towards and down the path.

“Let’s sit down here,” Mycroft said after a while, pointing towards a lone wooden bench. Smoothing her hands over her coat, Isla hesitantly sat beside him. She turned to face him, her uncle (who had remained remarkably impassive from the moment she’d stepped into the taxi). “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t say anything Isla, because I know that Poppy would never do something akin to this without due cause.” Mycroft paused, fiddling a little with his umbrella. “And meeting the mother she’s never known seems like a pretty good reason. Don’t you agree?”

It snowballed from there. Aided by little nods of encouragement and occasional questions, she unveiled the whole scheme, even going so far as to mention her midnight confiding to Mrs Hudson and when she was finished, she paused. She only had one question.

“Will we get prosecuted for this?” she asked, but the answer she got was an amused chuckle.

“Wanting to meet your parents isn’t a crime.”

Isla flicked a grin at him. “Would you get Lestrade to arrest me if it was?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed at this. The girl was far too observant for her own good. Just like her father.

“Perhaps we should start to make our way back to Baker Street.”

* * *

The relief that had been running through Isla ever since her time at the park with Mycroft slowly ebbed away as the taxi got closer and closer to Baker Street. It didn’t help that Mycroft kept trying to coach her on how to tell her father about the scheme.

So when the taxi did pull up, she almost wanted to stay there until Mycroft gave up the whole idea and let her carry on with the lie. Sadly, her uncle was a lot more patient than she hoped and after a brief staring contest, she sheepishly stepped out of the taxi and headed into 221.

Inside, the party had apparently come to its natural end and only Mrs Hudson was there, clucking over her father in her way and doing the washing up.

Mycroft stepped forward, steering Isla towards the vacant sofa and sitting her down. Her father watched them with a frown and leant back in his chair, his fingers tucked under his chin. Mycroft smiled a passionless smile at him.

“Brother, I think Poppy has something to say to you.”

Her father’s lips quirked at the edges as he looked to his brother.

“What, that she’s actually Isla?”

Isla’s head snapped up and Mycroft’s smile fell. A squeak came from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson came running into the living room, Marigolds on her hands, a tea towel in one and a platter plate in the other.

“Isla?” she twittered. “She’s—”

“You _know_?” Isla gasped, standing and running towards her father. “How? When?”

Her father grinned and got to his feet, tucking his hands behind him. “I realised when you mentioned the American government. Poppy never showed much interest in British politics, let alone American. She’d much rather read Jane Eyre for the fifth time than discuss anything to do with it,” he said with a chuckle. Isla tried a smile, but it didn’t take. She tucked her hair behind her ear, avoiding her father’s eyes.

“Do you hate me? For lying to you?”

Her father’s features softened as he broke into a wider and sunnier grin, tilting his head to one side. “I got to spend time with the daughter I last saw as a baby. Do you really think I’m unhappy about that?”

Any worries she had fell from her shoulders and she sighed, getting to her feet and throwing herself at her father and pulling him into a hug.

“I suppose you have to switch me and Poppy back now, don’t you?” she said. She felt her father nod as he drew away from her.

“Well,” he said with a small, saddened sigh. “From a legal standpoint at least, Poppy belongs with me and you belong with Moll—”

He paused, gulping slightly. He tried, but failed, to hide his smile. “Your mother. But there’s no need to worry. I’ll sort everything out for you.”

Isla nodded slowly as she deftly turned her head to suppress a smile. Eleven years, and he couldn’t say her mother’s name.

Quite clearly, there was some unfinished business there. Her heart lifted with the thought.


	11. Chapter 11

“You know, I blame Mycroft,” Sherlock called, the sound of the shower and the closed door unfortunately not quite covering the sounds of his voice. In the bedroom, John sighed and continued to pack the consulting detective's suitcase. His bag, already packed, was tucked beside his feet. For some reason, Sherlock had insisted on his coming along—he’d claimed it was because Poppy needed emotional support but after having listened to two days’ worth of Sherlock’s ranting, John had the strangest feeling that it was Sherlock, ever the eight year old, who needed this so-called ‘emotional support’.

“John,” Sherlock called again. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I did. And how exactly is Mycroft to blame?”

The sounds of the shower finished and were replaced with the sounds of an electric razor.

“Poppy’s mother and I married young; the government shouldn’t have allowed us to marry; Mycroft practically is the British government. Ergo, it’s his fault.”

“But you and Moll—”

Sherlock’s head poked round the door, and he glared. John cleared his throat.

“I mean, Poppy’s mum was 30-odd when you two got married. That’s hardly _young_.”

His friend shrugged, glancing down at John’s suitcase. “That’s irrelevant. Now, John, as you’ve quite finished packing, you’ll wish to leave and wait for me in the living room. Unless, of course, you wish to watch me get changed?”

John’s answer came in the form of a swift exit.

* * *

John looked up from the newspaper as Sherlock, now fully dressed in one of his signature suits, entered the room. John however, only had to take one look at him to know that he was filled to the brim with nerves. It was clear to see. After all, he was pacing, and he looked suspiciously neat for a man who claimed not to care about the fact he was to meet his ex-wife again after eleven years.

Isla bounded through the living room door, her long hair falling around her shoulders. Sherlock gave her a quick grin as she entered.

“Hi Dad," she said brightly and Sherlock's grin faded as she stepped towards the bedroom. "Have you started packing yet then?”

“I’ll get it done,” Sherlock said defensively, clearing his throat and walking towards Poppy, steering her back towards the living room. “Eventually.”

"Don't worry about it Poppy," John said from his place on the sofa, "I packed his suitcase for him."

Sherlock glared at his friend, and Poppy grinned.

“Good! Because we’re due at the airport in, oh, a couple of hours? I’ll just go and say bye to Mrs Hudson—” She turned and began to run down the stairs, but she stopped when her father called her back.

“Yes, Dad?”

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and turned on his heels slightly before speaking. “Um, so. You’ve – you’ve heard from your mother I suppose?”

Isla gave a swift nod. “I spoke to her just last night, and she’s totally excited to meet you.”

A knowing grin grew over Sherlock’s mouth, his eyes shining. “Liar.”

To this, his daughter said nothing. Instead she raised her head high, turned back around and jogged down the steps, not forgetting to throw a reminder for him to pack over her shoulder as she went. A moment of silence passed in the flat before John gave out a low chuckle.

“She’s a mini you,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yes…” Sherlock replied, his smile growing as he touched his hands to his mouth. “That’s the problem.”

* * *

The Stafford Hotel was like many of the more upmarket American hotels. Expensive artwork lined the walls, modern furniture was dotted around the foyer and eons of men and women all dressed in sharply-suited uniforms swiftly moved through the building, smiling easily at the paying clients as they went about their duties. A perfect place for a pre-wedding rendezvous.

In a room just off the reception area, there was situated a bar and sitting at that bar was a group of three. One of the members was Mark. The other two were his parents, the two of them as preen and as neat as each other.

“They should be here any minute now,” Mark said cheerfully, taking a sip from his glass of wine. “And please, remember to be nice Mother – Molly’s everything you could’ve hoped for me.”

His mother laughed, gently touching at her hair as she did so. “If she’s going to be as rich as you tell me she is, then I’ll be as nice as a politician on election day.”

Mark’s smile widened as he focused his gaze on the entrance. He didn’t even to wait a moment before they opened and in came his fiancée, Molly Hooper. He waved heartily to gain her attention. Beside him, he heard his mother groan softly.

“Darling, her dress sense is hardly suitable for the Stafford Hotel—”

He silenced her with a slight pat of her hand. “Millions, Mom,” he murmured. “Just remember that – and it’s just her dress sense, that’s something you can easily fix.”

But not that, he thought bitterly as he saw Mary, the dog Charlie (a dog? At the Stafford of all places) and that kid Isla walk in after Molly.

His fiancée did not seem to share the same qualms as him, because she merely grinned on seeing him, waved back and quickly jogged towards him to greet him with a soft kiss on his cheek. Her greeting was swiftly followed by a deliberately bone-crunching hug from Mary, a quick nod from the Isla kid and a short bark from the dog. His parents, thankfully, had a touch of grace about them and received these sudden intrusions with a series of smiles and light kisses on the cheek.

“Sorry about bringing the family,” Molly said as she wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “But Isla practically begged me to let her come along.”

“How accommodating of you,” his mother said sweetly.

“Just wanted to see the place my mum would be getting married in,” Poppy said brightly, clasping her hands together and glancing to Mary who immediately looked to Mark’s parents.

“So, you’re Mark’s parents?” she asked, genial and sociable as ever. “May I say, you have raised a great son. He’s so – ambitious.”

Mark’s father grinned and gripped at Mary’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, Miss—?”

“Morstan. Mary Morstan.”

“And this is the famous Isla,” Mark’s mother said, turning her all-too-sweet smile on Poppy (who just crossed her arms over her chest and looked at her with a somewhat cool gaze).

“Hello pet! We’ve heard so much about you! You can call me Aunt Viv, if you like, but I much prefer Aunt Vivian. I just know we’re going to be the best of friends.”

Poppy’s cool gaze stretched into a civil smile and she gently shook her Aunt Vivian’s hand. “Best of friends,” she echoed. “I’m sure of it.”

* * *

Outside the Stafford Hotel, things were a little looser. A taxi pulled up, and John Watson stepped out. Isla was next, and they both wore different facial expressions. Where John was frowning with a raised eyebrow, Isla rolled her eyes and glowered. Both of those expressions were aimed at the same man. The man who had chosen to exit the vehicle via crawling and then falling ever so gracefully onto the sidewalk.

“No, don’t help me!” Sherlock snapped as John stepped forward, clambering clumsily to his feet. “I’ll be fine – there’s no need to help – not at all.”

Both Isla and John watched, helpless, as the great detective finally stood up straight, bleary-eyed and swaying on his feet a little. “I’m absolutely okay. That was a good flight though, wasn’t it? So – so – _quick_! Barely noticed it happening.”

“Yes, Sherlock. I’m sure it was. I think the vodka helped.”

Sherlock shrugged and took a packet of cigarettes from his inner jacket pocket. When Isla attempted to snatch them away from him, he gave out a groan but let her take them all the same.

“Why are you so bothered with looking after me? Honestly, you’re like my brother. I said, I’m _fine_! I’m a – a – a consulting detective!”

“Yeah, just say that a little louder Dad,” Isla said. “I don’t think the couple over there heard you.”

“Well that’s their ruddy fault. Now go inside the pair of you, find your rooms. I’ll check us all in.”

John frowned, taking the suitcases from the taxi driver. “You will?”

“Consider it an act of charity,” Sherlock mumbled. John resisted the urge to throw back a remark and stepped inside, ushering Isla along with him.

Sherlock left it a moment before he slipped his hand back into his jacket pocket and took out a second packet of cigarettes and his lighter. Sticking a cigarette into his mouth, he chuckled to himself and lit it. He knew John would disapprove, but in that moment and as drunk as he was, he really couldn’t have cared. There were days when a cigarette was truly needed. Today was definitely one of those days.

* * *

Meanwhile, the source of Sherlock’s intoxication was stepping out of the bar with her arms wrapped around the waist of her fiancé. Both of them were giggling. Poppy and Mary had already disappeared, quietly claiming the need to check in and settle into their rooms whilst Mark’s parents—lovely as they were—had claimed to want to spend a little more time in the bar.

The two of them slowly passed through the reception area and headed towards the elevators, with Molly barely registering the dark-haired man who stormed inside the reception and moved quickly towards the desk to be greeted by a smiling but slightly scared member of staff. Instead, she and Mark continued to walk, exchanging murmured conversations.

“What do you say we go and check out the Honeymoon Suite babe?” he said quietly as they came to a stop outside the elevators. “I bet it’s as good as they say.”

Molly smiled and pressed the call button. “I bet it is.”

Mark laughed again and lightly kissed her once more. In front of them, the elevator doors slid open. They made to move inside, but that endeavour was rudely interrupted when a man pushed past Mark and stepped inside.

“Hey! You can’t—”

Anything else Molly might’ve shouted went dry in her throat and she froze to the spot.

He’d had a haircut. She registered that at least.

The man she was staring so fixatedly at, the man with blue-green eyes and dark curly hair, went pale, his face draining of what little colour it had.

“Molls?” Mark asked. “Is everything okay?”

Slowly, the doors began to slide to a close. Yet still the man kept staring, leaning with his hand pressed against the elevator walls until finally, all Molly could see was herself; reflected in the gold sheen of the elevator.

It was only at that point that she realised she had begun to wave.

* * *

Sherlock stood against the walls of the elevator and tried to focus on breathing. That probably should have gone a little bit better.

It definitely wasn’t how he’d imagined meeting her again would go. Truth be told, he never quite knew how such a situation would take place— _if_ it ever took place that was. Now it had, and he’d managed to make an utter fool of himself. He’d managed to make an utter fool out of her too.

He had to talk to the girls. Gather data. Most of all, he had to figure out what the hell he was going to do. This hadn’t been part of the plan. It definitely hadn’t been part of the girls’ plan. It would put a rather large spanner in those plans of theirs, no doubt. It was obvious, what they were trying to do. They were trying to set him and their mother up. It was a ludicrous plan, filled with holes and far too much reliance on coincidences and chance.

So why had he gone along with it? Well, the answer to that was obvious as well. He’d gone along with it because, well, because they were his daughters and he wasn’t going to refuse them just like that! He also needed to get Poppy back, so there was that too. There was no other reason. There just couldn’t be. Not at all.

The elevator came to a stop, and the doors easily slid open to a corridor. Sherlock practically dove out of the elevator and he advanced down the corridor, glancing at each door number. (It of course helped that he had no clue which one either of his daughters was in.) Finally, he came to a stop.

“Isla Hooper!”

The doors to rooms 253 and 261 opened simultaneously and both of his daughters stepped out, the two of them wearing exactly the same sheepish expressions. Sherlock groaned.

“God, don’t do that. Now I’m seeing quadruple.”

The twin standing in front of room 253 giggled and stepped forward. “Dad, it’s me – I’m Poppy.”

He sighed heavily with relief, and held out his arms. Poppy practically sprinted towards him and threw her arms around his waist. He let out a laugh and kissed her at the top of her head. Isla rushed forward too, and he wasted no time in drawing her into the hug. After a moment, he sighed and pulled away from them, his gaze moving between them.

“So, you’ve been – busy.”

“Very.”

A sunny, blonde-haired face poked round from the door of room 253.

“Hi guys,” she said, her voice lowered as she stepped out into the corridor, shutting the door behind her. “Don’t you think it’s best if we continue this conversation inside?”

He nodded sharply, standing up and brushing himself down. “Yes, of course. Come on girls. We’d best do as Miss Morstan says.”

Mary frowned. “Wait – you know me?”

Sherlock flashed a smile at her.

“We had a conversation on the phone once. You claimed to be acting as a messenger. Basically, I never forget a face. Or a voice, anyway,” he said as he steered the girls into room 261 and held the door open for her. Mary grinned and stepped past him, patting him on the shoulder as she went.

“Knew there was always a reason why I liked you,” she said brightly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shut the door. Moved forward towards the living area, he found that Poppy and Isla sat in an armchair each. Both wore the same sheepish looks on their faces. He settled himself into the sofa, laying down and running his hands against the curls of his hair.

“Right. So, where shall we start? Shall we begin right at the start, or at the point where I just managed to make not just a fool out of myself but also your mother—who, as I strongly suspected, had no clue that I even intended to be here?”

Poppy’s face fell. “Oh no. You’ve met Mum already?”

“Yes, Poppy, indeed I have. And if her expression was anything to go by, I am in fact not a person at all but a corporeal spirit wandering the halls of the Stafford Hotel.”

“How poetic,” Isla muttered.

A whistling filled the room, and in strolled John Watson, clad in nothing more than a pair of swimming trunks and a towelled dressing gown. Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Going for a swim then, John?”

“What, is that a crime? I’m on holiday – no, sorry, I forgot. I’m ‘emotional support’.”

He turned to leave, but he was blocked by Mary, who had used Sherlock and the twins’ conversation to pop to the toilet. On seeing John Watson, she stopped.

“Oh. Hello.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. So whilst he was currently trying to solve the thorny issue of bumping into his ex-wife, John Watson was finding love. Again.

John grinned at Mary, apparently oblivious to everything but her. “Hi.”

“I’m Mary – Morstan. I’m a friend of Isla’s. And Poppy’s too, now. I guess.”

“Mary’s a great name. I’m John,” he said, sticking out his hand. “John Watson.”

It was with a gentle, approving glance that Mary took his hand and shook it. Sherlock shook his head and sighed.

“Anyway. Whilst they’re busy flirting—”

“Hey!” John cried indignantly. Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, sitting up and looking alternately at his two daughters.

“You are both going to tell me why you tricked your mother into coming here. Come on. Out with it.”

Isla and Poppy shared a look for a moment, and turned to their father. It was Isla who started it off.

“Dad, this—” she let out a breath, “Mum’s getting married.”

The only response from Sherlock was a wall of silence.

“His name’s Mark,” Poppy said after a brief pause. “And oh Dad, but he’s simply awful! We can’t let him go through with it.”

Isla nodded eagerly. “He’s completely wrong for her – all he wants is her inheritance money!”

“He told me as such,” Poppy interjected. “And the only way he won’t marry her is if – well, is if she sees you again!”

Sherlock gave out a short laugh, making both Isla and Poppy jump as he swung himself up to a sitting position.

“Girls, believe me, I admire your romanticism, but believe me, if your mother has chosen to marry some muscular surf man, that doesn’t matter. All of that is irrelevant. Completely and utterly irrelevant. There was a reason your mother and I split up.”

“Okay then – what was it?”

Sherlock scoffed, getting to his feet. He began to pace. “I… I—it’s irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact that Molly Hooper and I no longer have anything whatsoever in common. And this romantic fairy tale you two have spun for yourselves is exactly what it is: a fairy tale!”

Before anyone else could say anything more or even think about arguing his point, Sherlock swept from the room, pointedly making sure to slam the door behind him as he went.

A heavy, awkward silence fell on the remaining four, all of them exchanging glances and shrugging. John broke it with a soft and amused chuckle. Mary narrowed her eyes.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, just – err – that’s the first time Sherlock’s said her name in eleven years.”


	12. Chapter 12

It had to be a hallucination. It just had to be. It was too much of a coincidence to be real.

Eleven years, no contact—not even a note—and all of a sudden, on the day she was to meet her fiancé’s parents, _he_ had turned up at the very same hotel on the very same weekend. Yes. Far too much of a coincidence.

So why on earth was she wandering around the hotel looking for _him_ when she had a very lovely fiancé waiting for her upstairs in the hotel Honeymoon Suite? She should’ve been upstairs and yet here she was, jogging down corridors and looking into elevators and searching the hotel lobby like she was some sort of madwoman in a daze.

She should’ve just gone back to the Honeymoon Suite and forget she ever saw him. That’s what she told herself. She told herself that again and again; especially when she darted outside to the pool, “just in case”, as she muttered to herself. Outside, sun loungers were lined around the poolside. Near to the harbour by the restaurant, there was a small eating area. Both were equally busy.

Unluckily for her sanity, she couldn’t see him in either of those places. By the poolside, she could see Isla—who had for some reason, changed her outfit—and she could see Mary, flirting with a man Molly recognised with a jolt to be John Watson. Finally, she sighed. Maybe it would be best for her to just give up. Maybe it was just a hallucination. It was stress that was all. Brides-to-be always experienced varying degrees of stress anyway; the fact that it had manifested in hallucinations of her ex-husband was odd yes, but that’s all it was. A hallucination. It would be best for her and everyone else if she went back to the suite and her waiting fiancé.

Mark’s mother calling her name loudly made her turn on her heel. Fixing a smile to her lips, she quickly hurried over to their table in the eating area.

“Hello darling. Looking for anyone?” Vivian drawled, gesturing to the chair beside her. Molly smiled and sat down, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“No, no. Not at all. I was merely, uh, wandering. You know. Seeing the sights.”

Vivian nodded. “Of course. But now, to business.”

“Business?” Molly said, frowning slightly.

“Yes – your wedding! Remember? Oh, it’s no matter. We’ll put it down to you being tired, shall we? Now, this hotel. Although it is quite close to the harbour, I think it’ll be just perfect! The rooms are a good size, and the price is more than fair for what they’re offering.”

Molly tried a smile. Not sensing her future daughter-in-law’s distracted state of mind, Vivian ploughed on, easily whipping through any and every subject she could think of that was related to the wedding. Molly found her gaze wandering, and despite her best efforts, she found she could not think of bouquets or buffets. All she could think about was an ashen, blue-eyed face staring, unabashedly, at her. She might not have paid it so much thought if she had only known what he was thinking. He had always been so unreadable, that was the problem. Or perhaps she had never been observant enough? Well, she had certainly observed him earlier. She’d seen every part of him, and it was almost scary how familiar it had all been. The dark curls, the eyes, the suit. It was like it had been imprinted on her mind, and however much she tried, she couldn’t erase it. Not even after eleven years.

“Now, tell me darling,” Vivian said, touching at Molly’s arm and ignoring the way in which Molly flinched and looked at her with almost manically wide eyes. “How many are we expecting, from your side of the family? It doesn’t have to be an exact number—just a guestimate. Of course, it would have to be fairly accurate. We don’t want to hire a room which will be only half full, now do we?”

“No,” Molly said quietly, still looking around at the poolside. “I don’t suppose you do.”

Right on the opposite side of the poolside, she saw the hotel doors swing open. Her heart caught.

It wasn’t a hallucination. Or was it? No, it wasn’t. The hotel staff wouldn’t smile at a hallucination. He was a paying customer. Flesh and blood. Vivian continued to chatter away, her husband now having joined in. Molly watched, transfixed as he moved forward and down the small flight of steps, smoothly slipping on a pair of dark sunglasses as he continued to walk around the poolside. Despite herself, she marvelled at how well he had turned out. He hadn’t changed much. He’d filled out and was less _gangly_ than before, but he was still the endlessly handsome man he’d always been. It both relieved and infuriated her.

She was on her feet in a flash. Leaving a now confused Vivian, she walked forward, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on him. Her hands raked at her hair, pulling at small tangled strands and scrabbling to twist it around her shoulder. (Why was she doing that? She wasn’t supposed to want to look pretty in front of him!) Groups passed her, but she gently squeezed past them, muttering “excuse me” and “sorry” to anyone who would listen. Unlike her, he deftly moved past anyone who came across his path. She quickened her pace to a jog. She had to catch up to him. She wanted to catch up to him. She pressed forward.

Sadly, in her determination, she became somewhat oblivious to anything that surrounded her. She especially became oblivious to the staff member quickly heading towards her. The staff member blurted out a warning, but it was too late. The two bodies collided. What little remained of Molly’s balance was lost. Mary shouted out, Isla shouted out. Even John shouted out. It was too late, as Molly was already stumbling back, arms flailing in a windmill motion and with one final shout from Mary and a surprised yell from her, she fell into the pool with a large, loud splash.

* * *

The silence that followed was probably more embarrassing than the accident itself. Her hair and her clothes heavy with water—she now deeply regretted her choice to wear jeans—she quietly swum to the edge of the pool. Her cheeks burned with the heat of her blushing.

She didn’t have to look to know that Sherlock was stood in front of her, looking down and most probably smirking. With a sigh, she gripped at the edge and heaved herself up. A hand came into her peripheral view, and she looked up to see that her ex-husband was leaning towards her with not a smirk on his lips but a gentle smile, whilst his eyes shone with a playful—perhaps affectionate—kind of amusement. She decided to say nothing as she took a tight hold of his hand and pulled herself the rest of the way. (She also decided to ignore the small thrill that went up her spine when he touched at the lower part of her back to support her.) Huffing slightly, she shook herself and stepped away. Eleven years, and here she was, soaked to the bone and blushing whilst he simply smirked.

She tried not to think of what that symbolised.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

“Afternoon.”

Silence fell on them again. She smiled and hugged herself. Despite the warm temperature of the day, her short dip into the pool had more than slightly chilled her. He appeared to notice this—but of course, what _didn’t_ he notice?—and he bent down to pick up a large towel before he unfolded it and gently set it over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she muttered, gazing around the pool once more. Mary and John were now on their feet, anxiously watching the interaction between Sherlock and her and exchanging quiet conversation.

“Um – is there something going on?” Molly asked finally. “I mean, I’m _beyond_ shocked to see you, and you, well, you’re relatively blasé about this whole… thing.”

Isla stepped forward, now back to her original outfit. Molly frowned. Okay. Strange.

“I suppose he is, isn’t he? But Mum, I can explain that.”

“Wait. Isla – you know who he is?”

“I do. And, uh, I’m not Isla,” she said slowly, worrying at her bottom lip. Molly let out a breathy laugh, her hand flying to her mouth.

A second girl entered the fray. The _real_ Isla.

“And as you’ve probably guessed, I am,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear and grinning. Molly looked to Sherlock, back to the girl she now knew to be Poppy.

“So I’ve had Poppy in Phoenix. All this time?”

Sherlock nodded once as he removed and pocketed his sunglasses. “It would seem so.”

“It would seem great minds think alike,” Poppy said. “Because you and Dad sent us to the same camp, and we met there, and everything… it sort of… spilled out, I guess, and we eventually ended up, well… here.”

Molly’s eyes widened as she smiled and drew her hand away from her face. She looked towards Isla.

“And you’ve been in London? In Baker Street?”

“Mm-hm. Honestly Mom, I have no idea why you let Dad go. He is amazing.”

A smile crept onto Molly’s face when she heard a small, almost nervous-sounding laugh come from the man standing beside her. Without hesitation, she ran towards her two daughters and scooped them into a hug, pulling them as close to her as she possibly could.

“So you’re not angry?” Poppy said, causing Molly to laugh as she got back on her feet.

“Of course I’m not. I-I just can’t believe you’re together. That’s all.”

From behind her, she heard Sherlock step forward and she felt his hand press gently against her shoulder.

“Girls, why don’t you let your mother and I talk for a bit, okay?”

Molly tried to ignore the knowing smile shared between her daughters as they quietly moved away. When he was fully sure they were out of earshot, Sherlock leant close to her ear.

“That’s the trouble with marrying a consulting detective you know. You get geniuses.”

“Yeah, thanks for the tip,” Molly said dryly and she began to dab at her still damp skin, feeling Sherlock’s hand draw away from her shoulder as she did so. Clearly though, her fall into the pool had been harder than she thought, seeing as when she accidentally brushed against her forehead, pain stung at her and she couldn’t help but wince because of it. He was immediately in front of her, his hands gently touching at her face to examine any possible wound. He frowned.

“Hm. You’d better sit down.”

“Look, I’m sure it’s nothing, I’ll just put a plaster on it or something – you really don’t need to waste your time.”

Sherlock’s hand on her upper arm stopped her.

“Molly,” he said gently. “Believe me. It would not be a waste of my time.”

She nodded and allowed herself to be sat down on a sun lounger. He situated himself opposite her and continued to examine her. Narrowing his eyes, he reached out. His fingers tucked gently under her chin, and she graciously tipped her head up. She tried to convinced herself that her breath catching was a result of being cold.

“How are you?”  The question was unexpected to say the least, but she answered nonetheless.

“I’m fine. Phoenix is a nice place to be… getting by. And you’re still a consulting detective?”

“As long the police are out of their depth, yes.”

“So no chance of retirement?” she asked lightly. His features lit up with a flick of a grin.

“Not at all. Baker Street is much the same as it’s always been – just in case you were wondering.”

“Mrs Hudson still there?”

“Of course. In fact, I’m starting to think she’s immortal,” Sherlock muttered, to which Molly spluttered a laugh. Sherlock smiled. Eleven years and not one iota of her beauty had diminished. Her smile softened and he drew his hands away from her face. He felt his shoulders stiffen when his gaze fell and he saw her reaching forward. Her hand gently covered his.

“Who’s immortal?” a cheery voice asked. Molly gasped, turning her head to see that Mark was stood over them. Her hands fell into her lap.

“No-one,” she said brightly. Sherlock sighed softly and got to his feet. Mark turned his charming smile on him.

“Hi! I’m Mark. And uh, this’ll sound weird, but have we met before? I could’ve sworn I recognise you from somewhere—”

“You probably do,” Sherlock said, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “I solved a case in America a few years back. Sadly, it was quite high profile.”

“Case?” Mark asked, frowning. Molly laughed uneasily and stood up, pulling the towel around her shoulders.

“Sorry, I should’ve said. Mark – this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a consulting detective.”

Sherlock stepped forward, taking hold of Mark’s outstretched hand. “The only one in the world.”

“Oh,” Mark said, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Impressive! At least I know where I’ve seen you before. You’re the guy who knows everything, right?”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened and his eyes momentarily scanned Mark. Molly watched him anxiously as his smile went cold. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

He felt a sharp tug at the edge of his suit sleeve. He glanced down at Molly, who stared straight back at him, her eyes wide and saying just one thing: _Don’t._ Briefly, he cleared his throat and shut his mouth.

Mark failed spectacularly to note this silent conversation between the two of them and instead rubbed his hands together, still grinning inanely. “Okay, so. How do you and Molls know each other?”

‘Molls’ _._ She was the mother of his children, and even he didn’t call her _Molls_. Molly opened and closed her mouth as she hesitated to give her answer. The situation was already skirting towards awkward, and she was not going to be the one to push it over the edge.

No. It was to be her daughters who took the plunge. Stepping forward to his right, Isla tugged at the hem of Mark’s jacket.

“Hi Mark.”

Mark didn’t have a chance to turn his smile towards her before Poppy jumped up onto his left side.

“You okay?”

Jumping about a foot in the air, Mark let out a yelp of surprise. Molly cringed, glancing towards Sherlock who just smiled his trademark smirk. It dropped when she nudged quickly at him before she turned back to deal with a shocked Mark.

“I never mentioned that Isla was a twin, did I?”

“No, I don’t think you did,” Mark said, his feathers quite clearly ruffled.

Isla beamed brightly at him.

“Don’t worry – she never told me either. By the way, I’m the real Isla, if you hadn’t guessed by now. This is Poppy. She pretended to be me, while I pretended to be her.” She paused to turn towards Sherlock. “And this is, as you know, Sherlock Holmes. He’s our father.”

“He’s your father?” Mark asked, blinking slightly. Isla and Poppy nodded eagerly. He pointed to Molly.

“And you were married to him?”

“Oh, but it was only for a couple of years—”

“Well!” Mark cried. “It is a small world.”

“Unfortunately so,” Sherlock murmured, scratching a little at the back of his neck.

“And what an amazing coincidence that we’re all gathered here on the same weekend. Clearly some of us have been quite the busy bees, huh?” Mark said, glancing to the twins who skilfully chose to feign all innocence. Clearing his throat, Mark looked back to Molly.

“And all I was going to do was invite you out to dinner tonight. My parents want to go over the rest of the wedding with the two of us.”

“Oh, thank you Mark, but I don’t feel like going to dinner tonight. I need some time alone – it’s been a busy day.”

“Yeah. I can see that. I’ll see you later Molls.” Only stopping to drop a kiss on Molly’s mouth, he departed. Without speaking a word, Sherlock glanced to her, eyebrow raised and an entertained smile. She only rolled her eyes at him, her still damp hair trailing over her eyes.

“Don’t say a thing,” she said, failing to hide her smile. Sherlock laughed softly.

“I had no intention to.”

“Yes you did,” she retorted, finally removing the towel from her shoulders and putting it to one side. “Girls, I’ll see you later.”

Sherlock watched her leave, right up until the point the hotel doors swung shut and she was no longer in sight. His daughters promptly began to laugh. He turned towards them, his eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“You’re still in love with her!” Isla blurted out.

“And she’s still in love with you!” Poppy finished. Sighing, Sherlock pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not in love with your mother.”

“Yes you are.”

“Am not.”

Poppy groaned. “Dad, you _are_. Admit it!”

“I will not!”

Isla raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Okay then. Prove it. If you’re not in love with Mum, then you’ll have no problem with inviting her out to dinner.”

“How does going to dinner prove anything?”

“Well, if you’re not in love with her, then you won’t feel any problem with asking her out to dinner as a friend, now will you?”

Sherlock considered his daughter’s words, and promptly shook his head. “I can’t invite her out to dinner – you heard what she said.”

“Correction: she didn’t want to go out with Mark. She might say yes if you ask her.”

“As a friend of course,” Poppy chirped. Sherlock stared at them for a brief time before he spun on his heels and advanced towards the hotel. As a friend, he told himself. That was all it was. Just friends.

* * *

She’d only refused the dinner invitation because she hadn’t wanted to make the situation even more awkward than it already was. Normally, she would’ve been happy to spend the evening with Mark and his parents and anyone else he might have wanted her to talk to, but today was different. Her daughters were here, planning something at least. Sherlock, her ex-husband, was here. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, being so gentle and staring at her in a way that she hadn’t been stared at since they were married. Not even her fiancé looked at her in the way that her ex-husband did. He smiled at her, yes and he was attentive when she spoke to him, but he’d never had a smile that had made her actually feel like she was the only and most important person in the room.

Oh, she was being stupid. She couldn’t base a relationship on just one smile. Eleven years ago, she had done exactly that—well, she hadn’t done _exactly_ that, but she had done something awfully similar—and despite the fact that the relationship had created two beautiful little girls, she’d also ended up a divorced single mother before she was even 35. And now the very man who she had fallen head over heels for was back in her life, quite without warning and rather rudely bringing up all sorts of feelings. If it was just one feeling, maybe she wouldn’t have been so put out. But it wasn’t. It was a multitude.

A rapid knock on her hotel door distracted her. With a sigh, she unfolded herself from the armchair she had curled up in and padded towards the door. When she pulled it open, she blinked. Sherlock was stood there, his hand uselessly hanging in the air from the interrupted knock. He swallowed, and dropped his hand to his side, tucking it behind his back.

“I’ve been told I’m to invite you to dinner.”

“Oh.” She gave a single nod. “Alright. I’m – I’m not busy.”

A smile twitched at the edges of his lips, his blue eyes focused straight at her. “Good. That’s… good.” He immediately turned on his heels and stalked down the corridor. Molly shut her hotel door, leaning against it. She hugged herself tighter, biting mindlessly at the tip of her thumb and after a small moment of silence, she let out a giggle. Dinner, with Sherlock Holmes. She didn’t think it possible to be nervous and excited for something. Yet, even after all of these years, apparently it was.


	13. Chapter 13

Returning to his hotel suite, Sherlock opened the door to find his daughter with his phone clamped to her ear and cheerfully chattering. He was entirely ready to dismiss it but as he passed her, but as soon as he heard the words “thanks Uncle”, he was crouching in front of his daughter and throwing questions at her. If Sherlock Holmes was only ever allowed to get annoyed by two things in the whole world, it would be both a lack of knowledge and being delayed. The fact that his daughter knew this only served to put him at a disadvantage, and thanks to eleven years of living with her father, Poppy proved frustratingly deft at keeping her cards incredibly close to her chest. All he was allowed to know was that they definitely weren’t having dinner at the hotel. Grumbling to himself, Sherlock stood and departed to get dressed.

When she was sure he was out of earshot, Poppy brought the phone back to her ear. Her uncle’s cool voice answered.

“He suspects nothing?”

“Nothing crucial.”

Mycroft sighed lightly. “Good. I’ll have Anthea text you the address.”

* * *

Sherlock stood at the hotel entrance, tapping out an unknown rhythm with his foot. God, but how he wished for a cigarette. Poppy, being far too smart for her own good, had already had John take the precaution of stealing his second packet and his lighter before they’d left the room. She’d claimed it would help him focus on the evening in hand. Right now, he had the temptation to disagree. Where was John anyway? Presumably off with Mary. It wouldn’t have shocked anyone if that were true. Ever since their impromptu meeting in room 263, they had been rarely seen out of each other’s company. Jesus, but he needed a cigarette. Perhaps he could sneak away—

The hotel door swung open and Sherlock gulped back any thoughts of cigarettes as he focused on the woman who stood in front of him. Molly smiled innocently at him, patently unaware of the weight her fashion statement carried. The dress was as beautiful as he remembered, and that fact only served to annoy him. Couldn’t it have had at least been eaten by moths in its eleven year lifetime? Why did it have to remain so _perfect_?

Poppy frowned. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong Poppy. It’s just – that was my favourite dress of your mother’s. You know, when we were married,” he muttered, delving his hands into his pockets. Molly seemed to hear him, for she glanced down at her dress and immediately blushed.

“Oh – I can change if you want—”

“No you can’t!” Isla said. “We can’t miss our reservations.”

“That’s true,” Poppy insisted, as a smooth black car pulled up. A driver stepped out and opened the passenger door. The girls climbed inside. Molly hesitated. She looked to Sherlock.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get changed?”

He lightly touched at the lower part of her back and smiled. “I never said I minded.”

Her features softened and she stepped into the car. Sherlock swiftly followed.

* * *

The car slowed to a stop and the door was opened. All of four of them stepped out and was greeted by a sea breeze. A row of expensive speedboats were lined up against the docks.

“If this is where we’re eating tonight,” Sherlock remarked, “I might as well as have dressed as a fisherman.”

Just as Molly choked back a laugh, Isla rolled her eyes.

“Of course we’re not eating here Dad. We’re eating over _there_ ,” she declared before she pointed straight at a very large, very expensive-looking yacht floating in the distance. She didn’t leave any room for any more questions before she moved towards a waiting speedboat and stepped inside, Poppy boarding seconds after. After sharing a look, Sherlock and Molly duly followed suit.

“And how much did this cost exactly?” Molly asked as she stepped onto the boat. Sherlock smiled and reached up, easily taking her hand to help her into the boat. He tilted his head, briefly eyeing his daughters.

“I’m guessing my brother chipped in,” Sherlock replied.

* * *

The yacht itself was beautiful, sleekly designed with only the very best fittings. Isla and Poppy giggled to themselves, whispering into each other’s ears as they escorted their parents towards what Sherlock assumed to be the dining room. His assumption turned out to be right, and they stepped inside to find that a table stood in the centre of the room, already laid out with cutlery and freshly cleaned china, with candles and a single rose flower making up the centrepiece. Soft classical music played from two speakers fixed against the far wall. The only anomaly was the fact that only two chairs were present.

“So,” Sherlock said as he turned towards his daughters. “You’ve decided not to join us?”

“No, we haven’t,” Isla said.

Poppy grinned. “We thought you could do with some quality time.”

Molly sighed and raised her eyebrows but anything she had to say was stopped as the door opened and two more people joined them. With one being John and the other Mary, they wore the standard black and white uniform of waiters and each of them carried a tray, with Mary carrying what Sherlock recognised to be hors d'oeuvres and John carrying two glasses of champagne. Sherlock groaned.

“John, _really_?”

“They made me,” he muttered, the tips of his ears growing pink as he proffered the tray to them. Molly stifled a giggle as both she and Sherlock took a champagne glass each and sipped at it.

“Have fun!” Isla called before she and Poppy quickly scurried from the room. Mary and John also made their excuses and departed. Sherlock and Molly, for the first time since meeting, were genuinely and quite privately alone. No falling into pools or interested fiancés to interrupt them.

It was awkward to say the least. Molly was the one to break it.

“Is it just me, or do I suddenly feel like a goldfish?” she asked, tapping her fingertips against the side of her glass. (He tried to ignore the tiny _chime_ that her engagement ring made.)

Sherlock chuckled and swigged back another gulp of champagne. “It’s not just you. You realise this is the music that we played at our wedding?” he asked after a moment.

“I… I didn’t until you mentioned it, no. Do you think it could be a massive coincidence?”

“Knowing our daughters? No. Not at all,” he said, letting out another chuckle. Whether it was the result of nerves or something else, he didn’t know. What he did know was how calm he felt when she joined in.

A muffled giggle caused the two of them to turn. Through the round windows of the doors to the kitchen were their daughters, who were both grinning at the sight of their parents together. Molly grinned and raised her glass to them in a mock toast. Poppy blushed and quickly ducked out of sight whilst Isla stubbornly stuck out her tongue and moved away. Molly looked back to Sherlock, a little unreadable smile on her lips.

“Thinking of something?” he asked, sipping at his champagne again.

“Yeah. Just how incredibly alike Isla is to you. She’s… she’s practically a carbon copy. As is Poppy, come to think of it—”

“No—Poppy is all you, believe me,” Sherlock said quickly before he reached up to gently brush a stray hair back behind Molly’s ear. He didn’t have the chance however, as Molly quickly did it by herself and with a smile too bright to be real, she raised her glass.

“To our daughters.”

“To our daughters,” Sherlock echoed. Gulping back the rest of his drink, he followed on as Molly moved towards the table.

“You know,” Molly said as she settled into her chair and laid a napkin across her lap, “it’s kind of funny, how our lives have panned out. You’re a consulting detective, like you always wanted to be and—”

“You’re a forensic pathologist,” Sherlock completed, just as Mary entered and set down two bowls of soup in front of them before she left with a quick smile and a wave.

“Thank you Mary,” Molly said quickly before she turned back to Sherlock and began to eat as she resumed the conversation. “So we got we wanted in the end, I suppose.”

The other statement she so desperately wanted to say didn’t come. Instead it just hung there, unsaid but between them. So she did what she always did and brushed it aside.

“What do you think we should do about the girls?” she asked, a little too brightly for both her and Sherlock’s liking. Her ex-husband shrugged.

“They’ve already met; it’s hardly likely they’ll want to be separated again.”

“That’s true. Perhaps we could each keep them for half of the year?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And make them attend two different schools? I love my daughters, but I won’t ruin their education.”

“And neither will I!” Molly said defensively. “Do you have any ideas?”

Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his chair, gently twirling his empty champagne glass between his fingers.

“This was why we came up with… this, in the first place,” he said eventually.

“Oh. I thought it was because we never wanted see each other again,” Molly whispered. Sherlock’s head flew up to look at her. It struck him at that moment just how sad her eyes were.

“I still think about that day. The day you moved out.”

“It wasn’t pretty was it?” She laughed softly, but there was no mirth behind it. “Not pretty at all. By the way, I um—I hope I didn’t hurt you too much when I threw that, uh, book at you.”

“Yes," Sherlock nodded, scooping up a spoonful of soup and swallowing it down. "It did hurt. Still does actually. Sometimes.”

Molly's cheeks pinked. “Sorry.”

“I - wasn’t talking about the book.” His statement was followed by silence. Molly sighed heavily. She had thought it would be so easy. All she’d had to do was turn up, eat some dinner, make some small talk and be done with it. It was just unfortunate she’d forgotten just how Sherlock made her feel. With that intense gaze, she had felt secure and safe enough to marry him. And somehow, after a heated split and eleven years apart, his gaze ( _he_ ) still had that effect on her. She just couldn’t help but feel as if she could say anything and he wouldn’t judge her.

“You said you still think about it—that day, I mean. What do you think about?”

Sherlock breathed a sigh. “Well… mostly about _why_ it happened. Why you moved out. I can work out almost everything, but I still can’t work that out.”

“We both had fierce tempers back then Sherlock. You, me… we said stupid things. I allowed it to hurt me I guess. Plus we were young, well, not _young_ young but —”

“Things go wrong,” Sherlock murmured softly, lazily stirring his spoon around his bowl of soup. The smile Molly directed at him this time was sad. Sherlock frowned a little.

No. Not sad. Something much more worse. It was wistful.

“I suppose they do.”


	14. Chapter 14

It was either by coincidence or sheer force of Isla and Poppy’s will that Sherlock ended up meeting his ex-wife at the reception desk when he went to check out. Though he had to admit, there was a certain joy to be found in the fact that her fiancé couldn’t be seen anywhere.

“Morning,” he said, clearing his throat a little as she began her own checking out process. A bill was placed in front of him, and he signed it off without thought.

“So we’re agreed?” she asked after a moment, looking to him. He frowned.

“About Isla and Poppy?” she said. “You’ll send Poppy over to me for Christmas—”

“And you send Isla to me for Easter,” Sherlock finished with a small nod. “Seems sensible.”

 _Or as sensible as this situation gets_ , he thought bitterly as he pulled his coat tighter around himself and turned to head back upstairs. At that exact moment, almost as if it had been planned the door to the elevator slid open and from across the room, Sherlock watched as Isla and Poppy stepped outside. In every sense of the word, they were identical. The same hairstyle, the same clothes and the same knowing smile.

“Oh no,” Molly said from beside him. She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to; it was obvious what she was thinking, and it was more than obvious what was about to take place. Isla and Poppy, still wearing those knowing grins, came to an immediate stop in front of them. It was Poppy who spoke first.

“Here’s the thing: Isla and I have been talking, and we’ve come to the conclusion that despite all our efforts and hard work—”

“We’re being conned,” Isla finished. Sherlock sighed heavily, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. He should’ve seen this coming—he really, really should have. It was inevitable.

“Conned?” he said. “You really think that?”

Poppy nodded. “Yep. But luckily, we have a solution.” She turned to her twin. “Care to explain?”

“Our solution,” Isla said, taking a step forward, “is that you, Mum and we two all go back to Napa Valley and go on the camping trip. At the end, we’ll tell you which one’s Isla and which one’s Poppy.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he looked to Molly. “Camping trip?”

“It’s one Isla and I take every summer when we visit my parents,” she explained quickly before she looked back to the twins, focusing on Isla. “Now Isla, come on. We’ll miss our plane.”

“Isla?” Isla said, sounding eerily like Poppy. In fact, it was impossible to tell if she really was Poppy or just playing. He looked once more to his daughters, crouching down in front of them to study them. Both of them were remarkably impassive, their expressions and features almost a mirror of one another. _Damn they’re good_ , Sherlock thought but he quickly brushed it away when Molly scowled at him and he realised he had let out an appreciative chuckle. Finally, he pointed to Poppy—no, Isla.

“You’re Poppy,” he declared. “I’m sure of it.”

The one he’d marked as Poppy raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely sure?” Now she sounded exactly like Isla. His smile sunk into a frown.

“Fine. You,” he said, pointing to the other twin. “You’re Poppy.” Yes, she definitely was. She had to be.

She merely smiled. “I do hope you’re correct Dad. Because—”

“You couldn’t send the wrong twin all the way to England—”

“Now could you?”

Exactly the same. The same inflections, the same rise and fall, the same teasing tone of voice… Suddenly, his playful warning to Molly about marrying a consulting detective was ringing completely and annoyingly true. With a sigh, he straightened up and turned to Molly, who looked like she was trying to figure out whether to be annoyed or amused by the antics of her daughters.

The elevator doors pinged open yet again, and out stepped Mark, looking far too happy to be leaving. That same happy grin was quickly wiped away when he moved forward and saw the situation in front of him.

“Molls? What’s happening?”

Molly hesitated to answer, pressing a finger to her lips. Finally, she let out a breath and turned to face him. This was going to take quite a bit of explaining.

* * *

John rolled his eyes as he continued to load the back of the 4x4. The reason for John’s current mood was clear. Three days ago, they, the twins, Sherlock, Molly and Mark had arrived at the vineyard of Molly’s parents and for three solid days, Mark had not ceased complaining. Now it was the day of departure, and the level of whining had reached painful. Like a yapping puppy, Mark followed his fiancée everywhere as she prepared for the trip, a sadly unstoppable stream of complaints flowing from his mouth.

_What am I supposed to do Molly? Sit at home whilst you go gallivanting into the mountains? It isn’t fair Molls!_

The complaining had only increased when he’d learnt of who would be accompanying her.

 _Your ex-husband, Molly? What possible reason could there be for him accompanying you? What, the twins insisted? Why didn’t you say no? I mean, they’re great kids and they behave really well_ —yeah, like he really believed that, John had scoffed to Mary, as it was obvious Mark loathed the very look of them— _but you’ve gotta admit it! A woman going camping with her kids and her ex is too weird!_

“It’s amazing what one man can find to complain about,” Mary said as she loaded a sleeping bag onto the boot. John flicked a grin at her.

“If he keeps it up, he might get into the record books,” he said and he shut the car boot. From the balcony above them, Molly brightly called their names. Mary turned, waving.

“Everything ready?” Molly asked, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt and pushing her hair back into a ponytail. Mary gave her the thumbs up.

“All we need are the passengers and the driver!”

“Great, I’ll get the girls.” Molly dove back into the house. Mary watched her leave and sighed, shaking her head slightly. Anyone else might’ve been nervous to be going on a camping trip with her ex-husband, but Molly seemed to be positively relishing the challenge.

Molly reappeared at the balcony, followed by Isla and Poppy. The three of them heading down the stairs and into the courtyard, both John and Mary said their goodbyes, wished them well and headed up the stairs towards the house. Sherlock passed them, now out of his signature suits and instead dressed in a blue shirt, white t-shirt and jeans with proper hiking boots. Hanging from a shoulder was a rucksack. He grinned as Molly waved at him.

“I assume everyone’s ready?” he said as he descended the stairs. Molly nodded, holding open the door for Poppy and Isla to clamber into the back and closing it behind them.

“They’re looking forward to the trip,” she said. “How about you?”

Sherlock shrugged as he slid the rucksack from his shoulder. “I’m looking forward to hearing it unfolds, yes.”

For a moment Molly’s brows furrowed in confusion, but as she watched Sherlock’s lips form into a grin and heard Mark call her name from behind, her features tightened into a false smile as she realised. At least now they knew where their daughters got their penchant for scheming from.

“Oh,” was all she said. “Well, that’s - that’s great. I guess it’ll be good for Mark to get to know the girls.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” Still grinning, Sherlock offered the rucksack out to her. She didn’t take it, her eyes still staring daggers at him and her smile still tight.

“Hey, Molls!” Mark chirped, jogging over to her and planting a kiss on her cheek as if the last three days had never happened. She directed a brief smile at him, but her eyes remained on Sherlock.

“You ready to go?” Mark said after a moment, nudging her slightly. Molly finally broke her gaze and she smiled at her fiancé.

“Of course I am. Couldn’t be more excited!” she said with a laugh before she practically wrenched the rucksack from Sherlock’s fingers and stepped into the car, winding the window down. Inside the car, the girls audibly groaned as Mark clambered into the passenger side.

“Dad!” Poppy whined. “This wasn’t part of the plan!”

“I know,” Sherlock said, mock sympathetically. “But I’m sure you’ll find other ways to have lots of fun.”

In the back, Isla and Poppy shared a smile as they realised what this meant. Mark however, went practically ashen.

“Wait - I don’t think I can go after all - I’m not a great ‘outdoors’ guy…”

“No,” Sherlock said with a faux charming smile. “I insist. You need to get know the girls after all. Starting next week - isn’t it next week? Or is it the week after that?”

“It’s next week,” Molly said, teeth gritted and her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel.

“Ah! Right first time. Of course. So yes, starting next week… they’re half yours.”

Mark’s face fell as he glanced to Isla and Poppy, who were whispering to themselves and glancing at him with distantly conspiratory looks.  He gulped loudly, but Molly merely smiled at her ex-husband as she started the car. Sherlock stepped back and gave a friendly, brief salute.

If she could’ve swore, she would’ve. Instead, Molly pulled away and Sherlock watched as the car made its way down the dusty path. Up at the balcony, John—who along with Mary had watched this whole exchange with a delighted glee—turned to his companion.

“Bet you he doesn’t even make it a day.”

“And what’s the bet for? You haven’t got any money,” Mary pointed out. John grinned.

“I can think of something.”

* * *

Mark flopped against a tree and began to pant heavily. He shed his rucksack and leaned against his chosen perch, swiping sweat away from his brow.

“How… far… are… we?”

“We’ve done almost a mile,” Molly said as she sat on a small rock and took a sip of her water. Mark groaned, but Molly smiled what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

“Don’t worry - you’re doing really well. We’ll get there.”

If Mark heard her, he didn’t make mention of it. He was still too focused on the business of taking large, dramatic gulps of air.

“Oh, are we stopping again?” Poppy asked as she appeared from the depths of the forest. Isla joined her soon after and after seeing Mark still taking heavy breaths, she rolled her eyes.

“Seriously?”

“Isla, be nice. Mark isn’t used to this altitude.”

Isla crossed her arms over her chest, aiming a disbelieving look at her mother. “Neither’s Poppy, and she’s fine.”

“Oh hush,” Molly said, hiding her smile. “We can afford to wait for five minutes.”

“I’m going to need a bit more than five minutes Molls,” Mark confessed, before he held out his hand. When no-one did anything, he looked to Poppy.

“Get my water!” he said, as if it was entirely obvious. Poppy sighed but got the water anyway. Meanwhile, Mark continued to speak. For someone as tired he claimed to be, he could moan an awful lot.

“God, my side hurts. I can’t believe you do this every year. And for fun? How aren’t you dead yet?” He was cut off by Poppy shoving his water bottle in his direction. Letting out a relieved gasp, he grabbed it from her fingers and put it to his mouth, only to let a high-pitched shriek and toss it to one another, spraying a nearby rock with water. The cause of his terror—a tiny, harmless lizard that Poppy may or may not have put there—happily scampered across the forest floor. Molly, who had jumped to her feet on hearing her fiancé’s distress, let out a laugh and picked it up.

“It’s just a lizard - it can’t hurt you.”

“How do you know?” he asked quickly, gingerly picking up his water bottle.

“Would I pick it up if I didn’t?” Molly said with another encouraging smile before she set the lizard down on a nearby rock. “Now come on—we’ve got to get moving.”

“I know, I know. But you go on ahead, I’ll join you.”

Molly nodded and duly continued on her way. Both Isla and Poppy attempted to skirt past Mark, but they were stopped by his throwing out his arm. Slowly, he turned on them, his features dark.

“Here’s the thing, _kids_. From next week, I am going to be your stepdad. Believe me, the prospect of having you two in my life for the foreseeable future is not something I envisioned for myself. But here’s a promise: If you don’t stop being the spoilt brats that you are, then I’ll be packing you off to boarding school on the day of the wedding. Got it?”

There was a long silence as the two girls eyeballed him.

“How can we be something we’re not?” Isla asked finally. Mark snorted derisively as his lips curled into a smug grin.

“Watch and learn,” he said before he pushed past them. It only took a nod from Poppy for Isla to pick up the lizard, deftly clamber onto a rock and drop the lizard straight onto the nest of curls Mark called a haircut.

“Isla!” Molly called suddenly, her voice echoing from the distance. “Poppy! Come on! We’ve got a lot of distance to—”

The rest of what she had to say was stopped by another loud, piercing shriek from Mark as the lizard, confused by its sudden journey from forest floor to human hair, quickly crawled down the front of his face. Poppy and Isla quickly dove behind a tree as Mark continued to shriek before he eventually grabbed hold of the lizard and threw it onto the forest floor, just as Molly appeared, running towards him.

“Is everything okay? What happened? Are you—” She stopped as her eyes latched onto the lizard which was now beginning to crawl up the side of a large rock. Her eyes rolled as she let out a heavy sigh.

“Girls!”

Slowly, Isla and Poppy stepped out from behind the tree. Their faces were the picture of innocence.

“We were right behind you,” Isla said sweetly. “Promise.”

Although that was blatantly a lie, Molly knew there was no real point in arguing. They had been delayed enough already, and it was better if she just focused on trying to get everyone to the lake. She turned and continued back down the rugged path, Mark following on. As they passed the still smiling Poppy and Isla however, Mark made sure to quickly stamp on Isla’s foot.

“ _Ow_!” she hissed as she gently rubbed her now sore toes, leaning on her sister for support. Poppy glared at a retreating Mark’s back.

“Operation Rock-a-Bye?” she said quietly as she steered a still hopping Isla down the path. Her sister nodded.

“Operation Rock-a-Bye,” she echoed. “He deserves it.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this tomorrow, but eh. *shrugs* I wanted to treat you.

They really had been lucky to reach the lake by nightfall. The moon was at its brightest, the stars were out in force and they’d been able to catch enough fish to last them both supper and breakfast. Mark however, was unable to appreciate the beauty of the nature around him as he was far too preoccupied with complaining bitterly about it. First it was too cold (it wasn’t). Second, it was too quiet. Thirdly, it was too dark.

For the first hour, Molly endured all of this was the same sweetness she treated everything with but as the time crawled slowly into the second hour and Mark still continued to complain, her smile had almost completely vanished and the only replies she gave were a series of automatic, default responses: “I know”, “yes” or “it’ll be better in the morning”.

She found herself wondering what it would’ve been like if Sherlock had accompanied them. She knew she shouldn’t have been doing it, but after two hours of hearing the same cycle of moaning, her mind had begun to wander. She didn’t want it to wander, but wander it did. Sherlock definitely wouldn’t whine, she decided that early on. Perhaps a few sardonic remarks, followed by a smile that told her he didn’t mind really. He was tough like that. Always had been. But the years in London dealing with the criminal classes had no doubt made him even tougher than before.

She thought about when she had met him. Of course, she’d noticed him before he’d noticed her. She’d watched as he’d embroil the increasingly frustrated Lestrade in debate after debate about who exactly the murderer was, often using his deductions and a wide, smug grin as his closing weapon, at which point Lestrade would acquiesce with a sigh and a rubbing of his eyes. Molly had found it utterly enchanting.

She found it enchanting for a number of reasons. His voice was one (she could listen to that voice all day), but the main reason she loved listening to him was because unlike anyone else she had met, he actually had something to say. He didn’t just parrot what he was told; he noticed, he observed. He thought and spoke for himself. She had that same quality, he’d told her on the night they’d finally got together. She did it in a quieter way to him, but that only served to make him more interested in her. That’s what he’d called her: a puzzle, but one he couldn’t solve. It both irritated and fascinated him, he’d claimed. She supposed some might think being called an unsolvable puzzle was offensive, but she didn’t. She found it funny almost, considering that when he looked at her, she felt like she was an open book and he could read her almost any way he wanted.

She supposed that was the reason they didn’t work. They were both so fixated on trying to figure out one another, they forgot how to actually talk to each other. So by the end they ended up screaming at each other until finally, they’d ended up in an office and signing divorce papers. A year, they had lasted. A _year_. Surely, that said everything. It would be useless, trying to get back together again. Wouldn’t it? After all, they were older now. Hopefully they were wiser too. And nothing had changed between them, their dynamic was still the same. She thought back to how he had acted around her before they’d left for the camping trip. He’d been calm, loose, joking and teasing her as he pleased. And what about the time they’d met? There she’d been, soaking wet from the pool and he’d simply smiled and looked after her. There had been no malice, no hatred. There was—there was _something_ , but definitely not hatred.

“I said goodnight.” Mark’s voice tugged her from her thoughts. She looked to him with a distracted smile.

“Oh. Good— _umph!_ ” Anything else she had to say was gone as Mark deepened his sudden embrace. Molly had to admit: she felt a little light-headed. Though whether that was from the kiss or the surprise of it, she didn’t know. Pleased with himself, Mark pulled away and stepped towards and inside his tent.

“And you’re marrying him because…?” Poppy asked.

Molly spluttered slightly, but grew silent and contented herself with blushing and hurriedly taking another bite of her supper. She could still feel Mark’s kiss on her lips, jumbled with her thoughts about Sherlock.

“That’s not an answer,” Isla said pointedly. Molly put her plate to one side and sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple. She should get some sleep. Better than rifling through old thoughts and feelings. She rose to her feet and kissed both her daughters on their foreheads.

“Go to sleep you two. It’s going to get colder.” Her daughters grumbled, but obeyed. Pulling her scarf tighter around her neck, Molly moved towards her tent and stepped inside.

* * *

They waited until early morning. As quietly as possible, they climbed into their clothes and stepped out of their tent, tiptoeing towards Mark’s tent. When they stepped inside, they found him deeply asleep and snoring, a hoodie over his pyjamas and wrapped up in his blankets.

Still remaining silent, Isla and Poppy positioned themselves at Mark’s head and feet and with all of their combined strength, lifted him up and dragged him from the tent towards the water’s edge.

“Mum would kill us if she knew we were doing this,” Poppy whispered, but Isla shook her head.

“No way. Did you _see_ her tonight? At this point, she’d probably help us!” Isla hissed, to which Poppy let out a bark of a laugh. Mark jerked upright, bleary-eyed and barely awake. Both Poppy and Isla froze, barely able to breathe. They only started breathing when he mumbled incoherently and dropped back onto the mattress, deeply asleep once more.

“Did he just say ‘ _money_ ’?” Poppy asked softly, her voice barely higher than a low murmur.

Isla nodded. “Mm-hm. Says everything, don’t you think?”

Now even quieter than before, they continued to drag him towards the water before they finally pushed him off and onto the water, watching as he slowly and gently floated away.

* * *

The sun was warm on his chest. So very warm. He muttered sleepily to himself and dropped his hand to his side. His fingers traced delicately against cool water.

His eyes flew open. Okay. Water. That wasn’t right. Why could he feel water? Was it a flood? Cautiously, he sat up. Ripples of water were all he could see. In the distance, he saw three tents on the shore. That was when he realised. It wasn’t a flood—he was floating, _floating_ , in the middle of the lake.

Rage boiled up inside of him as he continued to look around him. It continued to swell up until it released in the form of one angry roar.

“ _MOLLY!_ ”

On the shore, Molly jerked awake. Had someone called her? And why were they shouting? Groaning from sleepiness, she wriggled out of her sleeping bag and stood up, pulling a jumper over herself as she stepped out into the bright sunlight.

She saw it. Barely a mile from the shore, there was Mark, on his air mattress, face red with anger as he floated on the water. He struggled to his feet, wobbling precariously. Molly darted forward.

“Mark!” she called. “Don’t move! We’ll get some help - just calm down!”

“CALM DOWN?! I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF A LAKE!”

“No, Mark! Wait, I’ll—”

It was too late. He’d already fallen backwards into the lake with a hollering shout, water spraying everywhere. Molly sighed, but she could do little else but watch as a spluttering Mark swam towards the shore. She rushed forward to help, grasping at his arm, but he viciously shook her away, wiping at his eyes and shivering.

“You’re cold, let me get you a towel—”

“Of course I’m cold!” Mark snapped. “I’ve just been in the bloody lake! And all thanks to your daughters!”

“Mark that’s not fair—”

“It is fair! I obviously didn’t do it myself!”

“It was just a little prank, you were barely a mile from the shore—”

“That doesn’t matter Molly!” Mark exploded at her, spit flying from his mouth. “What matters is that those megalomaniacal little freaks you call your daughters almost killed me! I swear to God Molly, that when we get married, those two are going straight to a boarding school in Switzerland or - or - freakin' Timbuktu - I don’t care! Just as long as you and your money are safe from them and that stupid ex-husband of yours!”

An awful silence fell on the scene. Molly glanced over to her daughters, who had risen from their slumber and were watching their mother, crestfallen. Slowly, Molly nodded.

“Right. Let me get this straight. You want to send my children off to boarding school?”

“Mm-hm!”

“So you and I can spend my impending inheritance in safety?”

“Exactly!”

“Because you believe my daughters to be megalomaniacal little freaks?”

Mark nodded vigorously. “Basically!”

Again, Molly nodded. Her eyes flitted towards her daughters and settled back on Mark.

“Right. Okay then.” The punch she aimed at Mark’s jaw was swift. He crumpled to the ground, whimpering. Molly, eyes flashing with anger, slipped her ring from her finger and threw it squarely at his forehead. She turned towards the girls.

“Get packing,” she said shortly before she stomped back towards her tent. As Mark continued to whimper and began to curse their mother's name, Isla turned to her sister.

“Wow.”


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock sat inside the kitchen and watched as the hands of the clock on the wall ticked slowly by. Occasionally, he would take sips of the coffee in his hands, but his gaze remained focused on the clock. His attention was only broken when there was a knock on the door. Turning his gaze away from the clock, he focused on the intruder. It turned out to be Molly’s father. A short man, he had Molly’s brown eyes as well as her tendency to think the best of everyone.

“Oh, hello,” he said cheerfully. “I just had a call from Molly. She says the trip’s been cut short. Didn’t tell me why, but she should be home soon.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded, but said nothing. If he knew his daughters, the reason for their rapid return was obvious. Right on cue, Molly’s voice floated through to the kitchen. “Hello? Mum? Dad?”

“Speak of the devil! In here love!” her father called. Sherlock took a glance at the clock and grinned. His smile widened as Molly, flanked by two very cheerful twins, entered the kitchen. Molly enveloped her father into a hug.

“Where’s Mark got to?” Sherlock asked playfully. Molly sighed and set down the rucksack on the kitchen worktop.

“Let’s just say we had a rather large disagreement.”

“Mum punched him!” Poppy said brightly, settling onto one of the bar stools. Molly raised an eyebrow at her.

“And you, sweetheart, put him in the middle of a lake.”

“So a successful weekend in all?” Sherlock said his eyes shining as he stood up. Molly aimed a look at him, trying to hide her smile but failing spectacularly.

“Depends on how you look at it really.”

Seeing the moment forming between their parents, Isla and Poppy grinned and shared a look with one another. Their grandfather however, had a little more discretion than his grandchildren and he gently placed his hands on their backs, steering them from the kitchen. Seeing this, Sherlock chuckled and shook his head.

“They don’t do subtle, do they?”

“No…" Molly replied, her dimples deepening. "By the way, where are John and Mary?”

“They went on a ‘picnic’ yesterday." Sherlock aimed a knowing look at her. "They haven’t come back.”

At receiving this news, Molly shrugged. “Oh well. It had to happen sooner or later I suppose.”

Sherlock smiled and moved away from the counter, opening the cupboards and taking out some pasta and sauce. He didn’t have to look to see Molly frowning in confusion.

“I have had a daughter to look after for eleven years. Did you think I’d survive on just takeaways?”

“No!” Molly said defensively. “I just assumed you’d rely on Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her, but said nothing. She grinned and moved to stand beside him, leaning against the worktop as she watched him deftly chop onions. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but it was rather… pleasing to have her standing beside him like that, smiling warmly. The fact that her left hand was bare was a nice little touch. It was as if they were back to all those years ago, and they weren’t yet bogged down by miscommunication and awkward silences.

He found himself speaking. “I meant it.”

The smile, that sweet smile, slipped. “What?”

“At the dinner.” Slowly, he turned his gaze towards her and for the first time, he stared into those warm pools of brown without any sense of guilt or remorse. He swallowed slightly. “It still hurts.”

Why he was being so honest, he didn’t know. All he knew was that her left hand was bare, and he had to take a chance.

She let out a breath before she spoke, her voice quiet. “It hurts for me too.”

He turned his head away and continued to chop at the onions, swallowing slightly. “Where do you think it went wrong? With…” He waved a hand uselessly. “Us?”

She shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. Perhaps it was because you barely spoke to me; or the fact that you assumed I would be there, at your beck and call?”

“You assumed certain things about me too. And you never told me where I went wrong.”

“I thought you would know.”

“I’m a consulting detective, not telepathic.”

Molly choked back a laugh. Even when baring his soul, Sherlock Holmes could still be sarcastic. She actually envied him that—always had.

“But perhaps…” he said after a moment, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. “Perhaps if you had sent this, you might not have had to tell me.”

Molly swallowed a gasp. In his hand was a neatly folded letter, and on it, she saw her loopy scrawled handwriting formed into the name of _Sherlock Holmes_.

“Mary gave it to me before she and John left.”

“Of course she did,” Molly murmured as she gently took the letter and unfolded it. Her handwriting was reflected back at her, the ink fading but the words still as real as they had been when she had first written them. Sherlock’s hand reached forward and tapped at the second to last paragraph.

“Sometimes,” he began, as if he knew it completely by heart. She continued to stare at the paper, her eyes wet as she listened to him. “When I’m lonely—always when I’m lonely—I wonder if you miss me too. I wonder if you’ve still got space for me in that mind palace of yours. I wonder if you look at Poppy, and see me like I see you when I look at Isla. I wonder, when or if you do, you feel the same ache that I do.”

There was total silence as Sherlock recited the last few words. Ever so gradually, she lifted her head to face him. Just as she thought, his eyes were fixed straight on her and his gaze as intense as it ever was. She bit at her bottom lip.

“Do you?” she asked quietly, preparing herself for the answer. For a long minute, he didn’t speak.

“I do,” he said finally, clearing his throat a little as he spoke. She choked back a laugh. Eleven bloody years, and yet still he stood there, bold as brass as he laid out his soul to her.

“You do.”

He nodded once. She could still feel his gaze on her.

“We’re being idiots,” she said softly, more to herself than him. He made no reply, but just stepped closer. The lower part of her back pressed against the worktop.

“Tell me to stop.”

It wasn’t a command, and it wasn’t a question. It was an offer, and even though she didn’t feel like it, he had given all control of the situation to her. She shivered as his hands traced up her arms until they finally came to rest at her face, his right cupping her neck and his left softly caressing her cheek. She closed her eyes as her fingers gripped at the edges of his shirt, feeling his lips press against her forehead. She let a tiny gasp escape her as his lips traced against the edges of her face until finally he provided the sweet release of capturing her mouth with his. Her arms hooked themselves around his neck as they pressed their bodies closer to one another.

Through the window, the all-too bright lights of a car pulling up shone over them and in the distance, they heard the front door slam.

“That’ll be Mary,” Molly murmured against his mouth before she slowly pulled away from him and let her arms fall from around his neck. His hands stayed clasped around her waist.

“Hello?” Mary called. “Anybody home?”

There was a tentative knock on the kitchen door, and Sherlock’s hands finally let go of her waist. The intensity and warmth that had been in his eyes only moments before had disappeared. Mary stepped through, blinking in surprise at the sight of Sherlock and Molly standing together in the kitchen.

“What’s going on here? Someone cooking?” she asked jokingly. Sherlock tightly shook his head.

“Nothing’s going on. Molly and I were just talking.”

Molly felt her heart sank as she watched Sherlock go back to his task of chopping onions. She smiled falteringly at Mary. “Yeah. Nothing. Sorry Mary—it’s just I’ve got to… do something.” Quickly, she headed out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

* * *

“Yes!” Poppy cried. “A royal flush! I win again!”

Isla made a sneering face at her sister and stuck out her tongue. “Whatever. You’re just getting a good choice of cards, that’s all.”

“Or I’m better at poker than you.”

Isla had a retort all prepared for her preening peacock of a sister, but she never got a chance to use it, for both her and Poppy’s attention was diverted from the thrills of poker towards their bedroom door, where their mother stood, eyes brimming with tears. Poppy frowned.

“Mum?”

Their mother shook her head, holding up her hands. “I don’t care which one of you is Poppy and which one is Em. I just want whichever one of you is her to pack your things for tomorrow. We’re leaving.”

Quickly, Isla stood. Molly sighed.

“Poppy, please. Don’t do this.”

“No, Mum. Poppy and I switched places for the trip. I really am, quite genuinely, Isla.”

Her mother nodded and held out her arms. Isla immediately rushed towards her, hugging her tightly around the waist. It wasn’t long before Poppy joined them in the hug. Their mother breathed a half-sigh, half-laugh and kissed them on the top of their heads.

“I love you both, I hope you know that. Always will, and don’t you dare think different.”

“We won’t,” Poppy whispered quietly, hugging her mother tightly.

Just outside the door, Sherlock stood. His fist hung uselessly in the middle of the air, hovering against the door. With a soft sigh, he dropped it to his side and pressed his forehead against the closed door, his fingers wrapping themselves around the door handle. After all of this—the banter, the long pauses  and the unspoken sentences of hope—it was happening again. History was repeating itself.


	17. Chapter 17

Of course it had begun to rain. The engine of the taxi puttered as its rain-soaked driver heaved suitcases into its boot. Umbrella in his hand, John stood beside the taxi, his free arm wrapped around Mary’s waist.

“Have a safe trip,” Mary said, dropping a light kiss onto John’s lips. He grinned sadly.

“I’ll try.”

Holding his umbrella tighter and his shoulders hunched, Sherlock watched his friend. He turned as behind him, the front door was pushed open and Molly stepped through, umbrella in hand. Isla followed on behind her, sniffling slightly. Both Sherlock and Poppy wasted no time in stepping towards her and taking turns to cuddle her tightly. Isla mumbled her goodbyes to each of them before she raised her umbrella and escorted her twin towards the taxi.

“It’ll be okay,” Molly said with a small smile. “They’ll see each other at Christmas.”

He nodded once and lifted his umbrella over his head before he made to step away. Sherlock found her following on, encircling her arm around his. He said nothing to this, but he felt his smile widen when she pressed herself closer to him to avoid the heavy rain. _And this’ll be the last time you see her_ , his mind told him. The ache in his chest deepened, and his smile fell.

They came to a stop at the taxi passenger door, and he leaned across her to open the door.

“Well,” she said quietly as she took the umbrella from him. “Goodbye.”

He briefly closed his eyes. That word was too final. It was also the truth, and one he had to accept. So with another smile he turned to face her, settling his hand against her shoulder.

He took a breath. “I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it.”

It pained him to say such a thing— _she should be happy_ , the selfish part of his mind told him, _she should be happy with you_ —but say it he did. He softly ducked down and pressed his lips to her cheek, squeezing her shoulder a little before he let his hand fall away. When he straightened himself up, he saw that her eyes were damp. He tried to tell himself it was just an overspill of the emotions they had shared on her return, but it didn’t help the ache in his chest. So instead he turned away and climbed into the taxi, where he found Poppy sat on the back seat and John sat in the front passenger seat. The driver shut his door and pulled away. Almost immediately, a choked sob came from his daughter’s mouth, and her features crumpled, tears running from her eyes. Sherlock shifted towards her and pulled her into a hug, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head as she curled closer to him.

“It’s okay,” he murmured against her ear. “I promise it’s alright.”

In the front of the taxi, John sighed heavily and rubbed at his temples. This whole situation was mad, stupid and to anyone else who wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, ridiculously easy to solve.

“Sherlock?” he asked, turning his head a little. His friend didn’t look up, but did a small sound of acknowledgement from the back of his throat told him he was listening.

“You’re an idiot.”

Now Sherlock looked at him. His eyes were sadder than John had ever seen them. “I know John. I’ve known that for a while.”

* * *

Both the flight and the taxi ride from the airport took far too long. They dropped John off on the way, with John only leaving a glare and a shake of his head in his wake. Sherlock didn't say anything in reply to his friend's farewell.

He was so _sure_  he had tempered his feelings for Molly Hooper. The last week or so had clearly proved that theory wrong. His feelings for her were still as intense as they had ever been. It was a fact which both confused and delighted him. He hadn’t admitted it at the beginning, but it was a cold and hard truth: divorcing Molly Hooper was one of the hardest decisions of his life. It had left him with an ache, a pang deep inside him and despite his greatest efforts, it hadn’t gone. (If he were so inclined, he might’ve said that she, with her brightness and her intelligence, had changed him irrevocably.)

He had tried to move on as he was supposed to do, but his heart had never been truly attracted to the idea. He had preferred to squirrel the idea of love away along with that familiar pang inside his chest and concentrate on his work. Now he wondered if that had been the greatest idea he’d ever had for in doing so, he had not only denied the happiness that Molly Hooper’s companionship brought but he had also denied his daughters the knowledge of knowing one another.

“Dad,” Poppy said tentatively. “We’re home.”

He flicked a smile at her and climbed out of the taxi and helped Poppy take their suitcases from the boot. Together, they headed towards the door where Sherlock paused, frowning slightly. The knocker had been moved. Mycroft? No, it wasn’t tidy enough for that. It was as if someone had moved it by accident.

“What’s wrong?” Poppy asked, seeing her father’s hesitation but Sherlock shook his head.

“Nothing…” he murmured and he ushered her into the flat. Together, they headed up the stairs where they found the door already unlocked and open. Sherlock might have assumed it to be Mrs Hudson doing the laundry again, but that assumption was quickly dashed when his eyes caught sight of a pair of legs curled up on his armchair. The face of the person whose legs they belonged to however was hidden by a book. Coming up behind her father, Poppy gave out a laugh.

“I know who that is,” she said brightly.

The book was lowered, and Isla gave out a happy grin. “So you should.” She turned to her father, who had raised his eyebrows in surprise but had not moved from his place in the doorway.

“So,” Isla began. “It took us about, hm, ten seconds after you’d gone to realise that losing you again wasn’t something we wanted to happen.”

Sherlock dropped his mouth open to speak again, but anything he had to say was too large, too complicated to say out loud without stuttering and sounding like a fool. He was distracted by the sound of creaking wood. He turned his head to the left. So this was the person who had so rudely left his flat door wide open. His heart lifted.

She was small, and shy, and beautiful. Her brown hair fell against her back in waves and her body was swallowed in one of her luridly-patterned jumpers. Soft trails of steam floated from the mug of tea she held in her hands.

A pink flush grew over her cheeks. “Isla - she called in a favour from Mycroft. Mary’s gone to see John.”

“She has?” His voice was soft as he stepped forward. Just as his did, her smile grew with each step. She nodded.

“Yeah. She said she’d rather miss out on the big reunion. Too many tears, she said.”

He smirked. “She’s wrong you know.”

Molly said nothing as Sherlock came to a stop in front of her, for there was nothing else that needed to be said. Behind them, a small excited squeak escaped from Poppy’s lips. Molly chuckled and shook her head, looking to Sherlock as his hands traced upwards and gently cupped at her face.

“Slow,” she said quietly. “We’ll take things slow.”

Sherlock’s replying laugh was tender as he pressed his forehead against hers.

“Molly, surely you must know that I never do things _slowly_.” The rest of his sentence went unspoken, only shared between them because yes; Sherlock Holmes never did things slowly - but he would for her. Molly smiled and gently looped her arms around his neck before she finally did what she had wanted to do for eleven years: she brought Sherlock Holmes’ lips to hers.

Isla let out a happy laugh as she watched her parents reunite and glanced at her twin, who—if it was really possible—was grinning wider than her. It had taken swapping identities, midnight phone calls and a camping trip, but they had actually done it. They had reunited their parents Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the final chapter. However, this isn't quite the end. An epilogue is coming! Fingers crossed, it should be posted sometime tomorrow, but for the time being, thank you all for reading and leaving such lovely comments. Your kind support is a major part of what has kept this fic going. Once again, thank you!


	18. Epilogue

**Three Years Later**

The wedding had been perfect, tucked away in picturesque countryside. The reception hall was almost scientific in the logical way in which the guests had been laid out, whilst the decorations were understated in their clean opulence. At the head of the table, the bride and groom sat in the middle, affectionate smiles lighting up one another's features.

The clink of a fork against glass echoed around the reception hall.

“Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for the best man.” An awkward silence fell on the guests, followed by John Watson politely leaning into the ear of the announcer, who duly cleared his throat and tapped his glass again.

“Forgive me,” he said to the congregation around him, his embarrassment easily covered with a polite smile and bow of the head. “May you please pray silence not for the best man, but for the best… bridesmaids.”

The guests raised their glasses and the announcer settled into his seat as Isla and Poppy—who had up until that point been sat next to their parents—rose to their feet. Over the last three years, they had grown from inquisitive little girls to teenagers with looks that worried their father and pleased their mother. Their inquisitive and demanding natures however, had remained and on having all the attention of all of the guests caused them to flick their hair back and bow their heads with a smile.

“Hi everyone,” Isla said cheerfully, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “We won’t insult your intelligence by telling you which one of us is which.” At this, Poppy giggled and nudged at the side of her twin before she looked to the guests.

“When Mum asked us to do the speech, I thought she was kidding. Isla jumped at the chance of course—”

“Anything to embarrass Mum and Dad!” Isla said, gaining good-natured laughter from the guests and an eye-roll from her father.

“Yeah but,” Poppy said with a smile, “it was, as I said, a bit strange to be asked to do the speech.  I mean, we’ve only been a family for three years—Dad’s known John Watson over there for a little over fourteen years now, so surely he’s more qualified. So what can we talk about?”

“We tried fishing for stories from John and Uncle Mycroft,” Isla said matter-of-factly. “They however were both far too gracious to embarrass either Mum or Dad. Well, I say that, but Uncle Mycroft was prepared to tell us a few stories…”

From beside them, Poppy heard her father grunt and her mother giggle. Isla continued. “In the end though, we decided to give up on telling funny stories. Instead, we decided it would be best to tell you about why we think our parents make such a great couple. Many of you probably know the story by now, and we won’t bore you with the details, but basically, Poppy and I met at summer camp three years ago and after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, we eventually ended up helping our parents realise the massive mistake they had made in divorcing.”

“There were a lot of reasons we did it, if we’re honest,” Poppy said. “We did it because we wanted to get to know the parents we hadn’t known, but we also did it because through all of our talking and planning, there was one thing that continued to come through: how lonely both our mum and dad were without each other.”

“Over the last three years though, Poppy and I have been witness to so much more than that. I know Dad will be so annoyed at us for telling you all this, but he and Mum fit so well together. Where he’s grumpy, she’s happy. Where he’s all brooding and thinking, Mum’s all bright and talking. They’re like puzzle pieces really. One fits into the other—”

“Seamlessly,” Poppy finished. “And because of that, they’re not just great, great people but they… they have this astonishing ability to be a family. I speak for both Em and myself when I say that we couldn’t be prouder of them and we are beyond happy that we get to stand here today and tell you just how beautiful they are together.”

She glanced around the guests to find that John Watson was swallowing and blinking quickly; Mary was freely crying; Mrs Hudson was smiling widely with damp eyes; Lestrade was—predictably—making every effort not to appear as if he were crying. After a moment, John rose to his feet, cleared his throat and held his glass high.

“To the bride and groom!” His declaration was followed by a chorus of similar sentiments as Sherlock and Molly rose to their feet and tugged each of their daughters into a hug and quietly thanked them for such a wonderful speech.

* * *

After the speech made by Isla and Poppy, things continued in a rather traditional fashion. The DJ was predictably awful, playing cheesy love song after cheesy love song, but none of the guests minded as they continued to dance and chat with one another. The centre of attention however, one Mr and Mrs Holmes were not to be found inside the reception hall. They were in fact outside and sat together on a bench which stood a short distance from the building. With her feet now released of her heels—which had been tossed carelessly onto the grass—and tucked under her legs, Molly snuggled against her now husband, and sighed lightly as his hand came to rest on her hip, his thumb stroking at the silk and lace fabric that made up her dress. His other hand enveloped hers, their fingers entwined. He smiled as his eyes caught sight of the gold band wrapped around her slender finger.

“I guess I feel guilty for leaving the party,” Molly said after a moment. “But it’s nice to get some private time.”

Sherlock nodded, grazing his cheek against the top of her hair, which had been softly pulled back into a low bun for the occasion. Molly smiled.

“Don’t be,” he said. “The guests will soon have something else to celebrate.”

Molly frowned, looking to her new husband. (To know that she could now refer to Sherlock as her husband again after fourteen years sent a thrill of excitement through her.) Sherlock’s smile widened.

“John is planning to propose to Mary tonight. He wanted to do it at a later date out of fear of ‘stealing’ my thunder, but I told him to go ahead with his original plan.”

Molly grinned and lifted her hand from his to press it against his cheek. “You were very wise to do so Mr Holmes. Mary’s been waiting for him to propose for weeks now.” Softly, she pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Whereas you waited years,” Sherlock said, smiling as he took hold of her hand again to lightly trace his lips against her knuckles.

“So did you,” Molly retorted. “Funny really, that it was our daughters who managed to make us see sense.”

Sherlock nodded, but frowned, a thought clearly having come to him. “Did you know? That I was sending Poppy to that camp?”

“What, did you think Mycroft secretly contacted me and told me to send Isla there too? Of course he didn’t!” Molly said with a laugh as she settled back against Sherlock’s chest. “It was a pure coincidence, believe me. I’m still kind of staggered that it happened, really. No, I actually sent Isla in the hope she’d start to learn how to make friends.”

“I just sent Poppy so she’d stop nagging me about going.”

“That sounds like Poppy,” Molly said, glancing up and flicking a grin at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow. His smile however remained and he held her tighter to him before he dropped a kiss onto her forehead. Molly briefly closed her eyes and squeezed his hand a little.

“I’m really glad you sent her there,” she murmured. Sherlock said nothing to this. He didn’t have to. After their reconciliation three years ago, he and Molly had often mused on the ways in which their reunion had come about. Isla and Poppy had gaily filled them in on the details they had missed—Sherlock in turn had often marvelled at how well Isla had managed to deceive him for so long. Molly often claimed that with Sherlock Holmes as their father, she wasn’t surprised the deception had reached the levels it had.

It was also rather remarkable the effect the reconciliation had had on the others in both Sherlock and Molly’s life. For reasons that were quite obvious, it had been of great benefit to John and Mary. Mrs Hudson meanwhile, had become more than happy to have another pair of hands helping her with her laundry. Mycroft had merely congratulated his nieces and quietly aided Molly in acquiring a position at St. Bart’s (Sherlock showed his gratitude by reluctantly accepting to work on a top-secret case) whilst Lestrade and the others had noted with a grin and a slight tone of surprise just how much of a family man Sherlock had become with the presence of the twins and Molly in his life.

Sherlock had often tried to deny that last claim. He would grumble to Molly when they were in bed together, his arms crossed over his chest as he declared himself to be exactly the same man he had been when he was younger. Molly, sweet as she had always been and always would be, had run her fingers through his curls and soothed him with soft words and loving caresses. Now however, as he sat on the bench with his wife curled against him and the memory of his daughters’ words filed away in his mind, the idea of being considered a ‘family man’ wasn’t one that made him shudder as it had done before.

Tell the truth, the idea hadn’t troubled him for the last three years. He had, in fact, rather enjoyed the idea of being a domestic figure. Of course, the Hooper-Holmes family were never stereotypically domestic; body parts were still found in the fridge (even though Molly had insisted on getting a separate fridge for said body parts) and any family activities would inevitably involve the examination of some chemical or other. If there were any flaws to be found in this lifestyle he, Molly, Isla and Poppy had forged, it was that 221B—over the years—had become somewhat cramped. They needed, Sherlock realised, space in which to breathe and be their own selves. What they needed was something truly and utterly domestic; something which would have terrified his younger self. They needed a house.

“Molly?” he said, tracing his fingers against her arm. Her eyelids fluttered open. Quite clearly, she had drifted off to sleep in the silence that came with his thinking.

“Mm?”

With a fond smile, he touched at her hair and tucked it back against her ear. She continued to stare at him, her eyebrows knitting together in puzzlement. After a short moment, he spoke.

“What do you think about bees?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so here comes the end of this fic. It's been an absolute blast, writing this and I hope you've had fun reading it. Your feedback has been beautiful and has been a major part of what has kept this fic going. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.


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